MCVICKAR-COLLINS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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CONTENTS 

?AGB 

FIRST  LETTER 11 

SECOND  LETTER   21 

THIRD  LETTER 31 

FOURTH  LETTER   39 

FIFTH  LETTER 49 

SIXTH  LETTER .60 

SEVENTH  LETTER  71 

EIGHTH  LETTER   .......  80 

NINTH  LETTER 91 

TENTH  LETTER 96 

ELEVENTH  LETTER  .    .    .    .    .    .    .109 

TWELFTH  LETTER 123 

THIRTEENTH  LETTER   ......  136 

FOURTEENTH  LETTER   148 

FIFTEENTH  LETTER 173 

SIXTEENTH  LETTER 184 

SEVENTEENTH  LETTER  ......  223 

EIGHTEENTH  LETTER 245 

NINETEENTH  LETTER   .    .    .    .    .    .281 

TWENTIETH  LETTER 311 

TWENTY -FIRST  LETTER  ......  343 

TWENTY -SECOND  LETTER   .....  404 

TWENTY -THIRD  LETTER 406 


0 


A  Parish  of  Two 

FIRST   LETTER 

New.  York. 
DEAR  PERCY:  — 

I  am  half-way  through  Amiel's  Diary, 
the  book  you  were  surprised  I  had  not  read. 
I  am  also  half-way  through  life.  They 
both  go  slowly.  Many  people  feel  what 
they  cannot  express,  and  alas,  more  express 
what  they  could  never  feel.  The  charm 
about  the  book  to  you,  no  doubt,  is  its  allu 
sions  and  illusions.  Any  man  who  can 
dream  of  life  as  included  in  the  fold  of 
one  profession,  must  love  such  a  dreamer 
as  this  man.  He  must  help  you  to  make 
up  your  mind  that  dreams  have  substance 


12  A    PARISH     OF    TWO 

after  all.  You  received  your  finest  sensa 
tion  from  the  book  in  your  flattered  vanity; 
in  the  knowledge  that  you  were  of  the  ex- 
clusives,  who  could  understand  its  erudi 
tion  and  follow  intelligently  its  maze.  I 
wonder  was  it  Amiel  who  said  that  "  Lon 
don  is  nothing  but  a  suburb  of  Hell." 
Whether  it  was  he  or  another,  the  phrase 
makes  me  chortle  with  joy.  That  is  the 
way  I  feel  about  New  York.  New  York, 
too,  smells  of  Hellish  things.  In  the  first 
place,  every  one  who  knows  me  (and  there 
is  none  such),  knows  that  I  am  an  over 
strung  harp,  on  which  Fate  plays  discords 
that  will,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  drive  me 
crazy;  and  this  city  is  "  Fate,"  and  "  Fate  is 
a  humourist."  It  does  the  cruellest  things. 
It  compels  me  to  see  daily  passing  before 
my  sunflower  eyes  relics  of  barbarism, 
called  hansom  cabs.  They  are  so  unbe- 


A     PARISH     OF    TWO  13 

fitting  a  progressive  country.  Why,  of  all 
places,  America  should  have  adopted  a 
tradition  (which  is  an  insurmountable 
stone  fence),  and  handicap  herself  like 
England,  I  cannot  understand.  Traditions 
are  parasites  that  sap  progress,  which  is 
life.  A  hansom  cab  is  a  sedan-chair  on 
wheels.  The  driver  has  no  control  over 
the  horse  because  his  legs  are  cramped,  and 
it  takes  twice  its  length  to  turn.  Mark  my 
words,  the  last  hansom  cab  will  be  ridden 
in  by  a  woman.  Imbecility  has  a  fatal  fas 
cination  for  the  creatures  who  have  a  fatal 
fascination  for  us.  Another  thing  that  wor 
ries  me  is  the  manner  in  which  our  coach 
men  sit  on  the  box.  Never  having  had  a 
coachman,  I  love  the  "  our."  They  look 
as  if  they  suffered  from  "  mortal  cramps;  " 
their  legs  are  tucked  in,  instead  of  stretched 
out,  so,  if  the  horse  stumbled,  they  would 


14  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

do  an  acrobatic  feat  as  parabolic  as  unex 
pected.  I  do  say,  and,  when  I  say  "  I  do 
say,"  I  mean  it,  that  when  fashions  ignore 
common  sense,  common  sense  should  ignore 
fashion.  Now,  at  this  point,  put  down  this 
letter  and  light  a  cigarette,  and  say, 
"  Really,  Douglas's  letters  are  a  little  dull. 
He  will  insist  in  trying  to  interest  me  in 
things  that  interest  him."  Well,  old  boy, 
that  means  that  I  belong  to  that  full  half 
of  the  world  which  is  doing  the  self-same 
thing  to  the  other  half.  The  world  can 
be  divided  in  a  million  different  halves 
(Hurrah,  a  paradox!),  but  a  wise  man 
once  said  to  me:  "The  only  sure  division 
is  that  one  half  are  trying  to  get  fat  and 
the  other  half  lean."  Do  smile,  for  I  think 
this  funny. 

I  mean  by  "  Hellish  things "  the  items 
of  news  in  the  paper:   "  Young  girl  throws 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  15 

vitriol  in  rival's  face,"  "  Man  shoots  his 
sweetheart  and  then  himself,"  "  Little 
schoolgirl  lured  into  deserted  hallway  and 
assaulted."  I  know  I  come  down-stairs  to 
breakfast  after  an  eight-hour  interview 
with  the  gods,  feeling  as  if  the  world  were 
not  such  an  impossible  place,  after  all,  and 
then  come  the  newspapers  and  the  blues  and 
the  horrors,  and  I  feel  it  would  be  wiser 
not  to  go  out  without  my  revolver  and  a 
bowie  knife.  By  the  way,  have  you  ever 
been  interviewed  by  a  reporter?  I  have. 

Reporter:  "  The  Perennial  Liar  would 
like  to  have  the  facts  in  regard  to  your 
inordinate  love  for  your  mother." 

Victim:  "  I  fail  to  see  how  this  interests 
the  public,  so  I  decline  to  give  any." 

Reporter:  "  The  other  papers  will  have 
a  '  story '  in  to-morrow's  issue  on  the  sub 
ject,  so,  should  you  refuse  us  the  facts,  we 


16  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

may  have  to  print  something  that  would 
cause  you  pain." 

This  seems  to  me  perilously  near  black 
mail.  The  liberty  of  the  press  approaches 
the  tyranny  of  the  press. 

I  am  surrounded  at  present  by  an  atmos 
phere  of  illness,  which  is  always  a  possible 
overture  to  death.  In  music  (God  bless 
it),  it  is  all  opera  and  little  overture,  but 
in  life  it  is  apt  to  be  much  overture  and  a 
"  sustained  note,"  called  Death.  Having 
so  many  members  of  my  family  ill  has  given 
me  a  feeling  of  loneliness  which  is  akin  to 
pain.  Loneliness  is  a  sense  of  nakedness, 
with  this  difference,  that  when  naked  you 
attract  the  attention  of  others,  and  when 
lonely  you  attract  none.  I  am  writing  this 
in  the  library  of  the  club,  only  one  other 
in  the  room.  I  don't  know  who  he  is,  but 
he  is  a  wonder  at  observing  the  rules.  He 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  17 

is  flanked  on  either  side  by  a  placard  that 
reads  "  Silence,"  and  never  a  word  escapes 
him.  "  He  "  is  a  bust  in  bronze.  He  is 
a  little  brown  and  a  little  green,  and  his 
eyes  lack  expression,  but  he  is  very  restful, 
which  is  grateful,  as  I  have  just  left  a  man 
who  has  told  me,  at  greater  length,  more 
things  that  I  did  not  care  to  know  than  any 
one  I  have  ever  met.  When  I  noticed  in 
the  library  its  beggarly  array  of  empty 
chairs,  I  could  not  help  realising  how  much 
you  can  drink  if  you  don't  read,  and  I  could 
not  help  thinking  how  thankful  the  mem 
bers  must  be  that  they  were  strong  enough 
to  resist  the  temptation  to  read. 

Dear  old  man,  I  have  not  much  news. 
I  am  "  still  heart-whole  and  fancy-free." 
I  should  like  to  continue  "  heart-whole," 
but  I  should  much  enjoy  having  my  fancy 
made  captive.  This  is  a  distinction  with 


i8  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

a  difference,  but  somehow,  the  women  of 
the  present  day  are  so  disillusionising,  and 
to  be  in  love  one  has  to  live  on  illusion. 
I  have  no  illusions  in  regard  to  a  woman's 
modesty;  she  has  not  as  much  as  a  man. 
This  may  be  shocking  and,  to  an  American, 
sacrilegious,  but  nevertheless  true.  A 
woman,  whose  morals  are  like  Caesar's 
wife's,  will  dress  in  front  of  a  window  with 
the  blinds  up,  when  a  man  will  not.  A 
woman,  in  conversation,  will  handle  with 
out  gloves  subjects  that  a  man  handles  with 
tongs,  or  not  at  all.  I  took  a  woman  in  to 
dinner  the  other  night  whom  I  had  met 
but  once  before,  but  we  had  many  common 
friends,  mostly  of  her  own  sex.  She  re 
galed  me  with  an  account  of  their  diseases, 
of  operations  that  had  been  performed 
upon  them,  and  like  private  facts  of  which 
I  had  been  previously  ignorant.  I  tried 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  19 

to  lead  her  gently  back  into  channels  less 
personal  and  distressing  to  others,  but  her 
pride  in  the  fact  that  she  was  the  only 
woman  of  her  acquaintance  quite  sound 
and  healthy  must  be  proved  first.  I  could 
not  help  wondering,  if  our  friends  could 
have  overheard,  what  sort  of  a  death  they 
would  have  wished  her. 

I  am  so  glad  your  affairs  are  coming  on 
so  well.  I  firmly  believe  there  is  a  certain 
sort  of  magnetism  about  a  piece  of  luck 
that  draws  another  piece  out  of  its  hiding- 
place.  Please  don't  tell  me  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  "  luck."  A  man  told  me  that  once, 
and  he  is  now  where  he  deserves  to  be  — 
in  a  lunatic  asylum.  You  certainly  have  a 
marvellous  capacity  to  control  your  destiny, 
but  I  also  have  a  marvellous  capacity  to  let 
my  destiny  control  me.  Perhaps  mine  may 
prove  the  better  way. 


20  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

Hour  by  hour  I  have  writ  and  writ,  so 
see  you  do  the  same.  Answer  this  or  pre 
pare  to  blush  with  shame  on  the  Judgment 
Dajr.  Yours, 

DOUGLAS  DAYTON. 


SECOND    LETTER 

West  Braintree,  Mass. 

DEAR  DOUGLAS  :- 

So  you  have  read  and  disliked  Amiel's 
Journal.  It  seemed  to  me  worthy  of  more 
praise  than  you  vouchsafe  it.  But  when 
one  is  in  bed,  as  am  I  through  this  stupid 
accident,  it  is  a  temptation  to  devour  books, 
and  to  leave  the  critical  faculty  to  one  side. 

How  many  years  it  is  since  you  and  I 
knew  one  another  well!  —  I  mean  by  daily 
contact.  Since  then,  I  have  been  ten  years 
a  country  parson  in  Massachusetts,  and  you 
—  what  have  you  been  or  become?  At  all 
events,  you  have  lost  none  of  your  kindli 
ness,  else  I  should  not  have  heard  from  you 


22  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

so  soon  after  my  accident.  That  I  should 
have  plunged  into  writing  you  of  books 
may  have  surprised  you,  but  books  have 
been  for  a  long  time  my  adventures,  as  I 
fancy  they  have  not  been  yours.  It  is  won 
derful  how  we  slough  off  an  old  self,  and 
forget  him  until  the  companion  of  that  old 
self  brings  him  fresh  to  mind.  You  at  the 
club  in  New  York,  how  could  you  be  ex 
pected  to  visualise  my  parish  here  in  West 
Braintree?  I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  got 
here  myself!  I  who  know  the  streets  of 
London,  Paris,  Leipzig,  and  Berlin  better 
than  I  know  the  tortuous  paved  paths  of 
Boston,  even  here  am  I  jogging  along  in  as 
narrow  a  round  of  duties  as  ever  befell  a 
parson.  •  There  are  people  here,  not  an  hour 
and  a  half  from  Boston  by  rail,  who  have 
never  been  to  Boston,  —  two  of  my  parish 
ioners,  indeed,  have  never  been  in  a  train. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  23 

The  meeting-house  is  older  than  the  oldest 
coat-of-arms  in  Newport,  and  there  are 
children  here  whose  great-grandfathers  are 
living  in  the  same  street.  How  such  pro 
pinquity  of  lineage  would  upset  ancestral 
pretensions  amongst  many  of  your  daily- 
society-news-chronicled  friends!  What 
would  you  think  of  a  village  community, 
where  one  of  the  half-dozen  most  promi 
nent  men  in  it  was  not  asked  out  to  dinner 
for  twelve  months  at  a  stretch?  Such  an 
one  am  I,  both  as  to  the  prominence  and 
to  the  unaskedness! 

I  never  had  anything  of  the  priest  about 
me,  thank  Heaven,  but  at  twenty-two  I  was 
an  enthusiast,  and  I  jumped  into  this  little 
ecclesiastical  pool  of  monotony  and  began 
a  terrible  splashing.  I  became  a  sort  of 
doer  of  good  in  a  white  tie,  without  much 
thought,  to  tell  the  truth,  of  the  parsonical 


24  APARISHOFTWO 

restraints  and  dignities.  I  felt  myself  to 
be  no  more  of  a  priest  than  any  man  in  the 
pews  in  front  of  me  on  Sundays,  only,  if 
they  preferred  my  enthusiastic  and  youth 
ful  talking  —  thundering  it  was  at  times 
—  I  took  a  salary  —  small  —  and  they  got 
what  they  wanted.  They  were  curiosities 
to  me  —  what  a  series  of  diurnal  surprises 
I  must  have  been  to  them  in  those  days! 
I  was  the  barbarous,  rollicking  young  West, 
and  they  the  East. 

"  The  brooding  East  with  awe  beheld 

Her  impious  younger  world  — 
The  Roman  tempest  swelled  and  swelled, 
And  on  her  head  was  hurled. 

"  The  East  bowed  low  before  the  blast, 

In  patient,  deep  disdain  ; 
She  let  the  legions  thunder  past 
And  plunged  in  thought  again." 

I  wonder  if  you  will  mind  if  I  write  you 
a  line  or  so  of  "  shop  "  just  here,  for  I  think 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  25 

you  civilians  are  prone  to  lump  things,  and 
to  fail  to  make  distinctions  in  the  coteries 
outside  your  own.  You  know  there  are  two 
classes  of  parsons:  the  lay  parsons  and  the 
ecclesiastical  parsons.  The  ecclesiastical 
parsons  are  the  fellows  who  go  in  for  being 
the  Church,  and  the  lay  parsons  are  the 
fellows  who  look  upon  the  Church  as  a 
branch  of  the  ethical  civil  service  of  the 
world,  and  who  go  in  for  helping  the 
Church.  The  first  lot  are  all  Papists,  no 
matter  whether  they  be  Baptists  or  Episco 
palians;  the  latter  are  all  Protestants,  no 
matter  whether  they  be  Unitarians  or 
Broad  Churchmen.  The  former  all  hold, 
in  secret  or  openly,  to  that  abominable  doc 
trine  which  makes  the  minister  personam 
ecclesiae  gerere,  the  latter  conceive  of  their 
position  as  having  no  more  privileges,  and 
no  severer  restraints  than  those  incumbent 


26  APARISHOFTWO 

upon  any  other  honourable  God-fearing 
man,  The  one  claims  to  have  received  his 
commission  from  some  mysterious  extra  and 
supra  mundane  power  of  tactual  succession 
—  whatever  in  the  realm  of  physical  law 
that  may  mean  —  and  the  other  wears  his 
uniform,  if  he  wears  any  at  all,  as  a  volun 
teer  officer  in  a  particular,  distinguished, 
and  highly  honourable  branch  of  the  service 
of  the  world.  The  one  chatters  his  gibber 
ish  about  "  once  a  priest  always  a  priest;  " 
and  the  other  holds,  just  as  you  might,  to 
nothing  more  than  once  a  man  always  a  man, 
and  claims  the  standard  to  be  as  high  for 
you,  as  for  him. 

But,  merciful  heavens!  having  just  read 
over  what  I  have  written,  I  am  dismayed 
at  the  thought  of  your  reading  it.  You 
must  look  upon  me  as  a  charity!  A  crip 
pled  parson  in  a  country  parish  in  Massa- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  27 

chusetts,  who  can  now  only  read  and  write, 
surely  you  will  waft  more  epigrams  my 
way.  All  your  talk  about  "  women,"  and 
"  Hell,"  and  "  cigarettes  "  and  "  hansom 
cabs  "  and  trussed  coachmen  —  there  is  not 
a  man  in  livery  in  this  town,  —  is  like 
burning  a  pastille  in  my  room.  Hot,  sweet, 
Khayyamish  as  though  a  houri  should  be 
found  sawing  wood  in  the  back  yard.  At 
forty,  with  a  past  of  rowing,  riding,  swim 
ming,  sailing,  football,  sparring,  a  duel  or 
two  in  Germany,  a  mountain  sheep  in  the 
Rockies,  and  such  huge  pleasure  in  these 
physical  activities,  —  at  forty,  to  be  told  a 
wheel-chair,  possibly,  with  luck,  crutches, 
for  the  future,  is  a  shock  so  unexpected  that 
one  hardly  gauges  the  severity  of  it  at  once. 
I  appreciate  your  kindness  in  writing  me 
as  though  nothing  had  happened.  No  doubt 
I  shall  complain  enough  as  time  goes  on, 


28  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

without  need  of  a  chorus.  What  is  one 
man's  vertebrae  out  of  kilter,  among  so 
many,  anyway?  There  are  just  as  many 
hansoms  in  Fifth  Avenue  —  are  there  not? 
Even  though  your  own  clock  runs  down, 
time  is  measured  by  other  people  as  calmly 
as  though  the  most  important  tick,  tick, 
tick,  of  all  were  still  heard.  You  had  your 
fling  about  loneliness  in  your  letter.  How 
strange  it  is  as  one  gets  older  that  loneliness 
which  seemed  in  youth  the  one  impossible 
malady,  should  become  as  natural  as  wrin 
kles  or  gray  hair,  and  be  it  said,  no  more 
painful  than  these.  The  Roman's  "  When 
I  am  alone  then  am  I  least  alone,"  seemed 
such  insufferable  priggishness  at  twenty,  but 
later,  one  wonders  how  any  sensible  man 
can  think  or  feel  otherwise.  The  very  fact 
of  the  development  of  individuality  sets  a 
man  apart  from  others.  It  is  this  early 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  29 

development  of  individuality  that  made 
Keats,  and  Shelley,  and  Byron,  and  Goethe 
seem  so  uppish  and  offish,  and  affish  (this 
is  a  new  word  from  the  German  Affe]  in 
their  youth.  I  suppose  most  men  of  real 
ability  are  lonesome,  though  some  of  them 
conceal  it  better  than  others. 

I  must  stop.  The  back  is  aching  a  bit, 
and  I  have  written  you  a  long  rambling 
screed.  Do  you  remember  the  delightful 
mot  of  the  younger  Pliny,  who  wrote  to 
a  certain  correspondent:  "  I  must  e'en 
write  you  a  long  letter  since  I  have  no  time 
to  write  a  short  one?  "  How  true  it  is  that 
it  takes  time  to  condense. 

Write  me  soon  again.  Tell  me  where 
you  are,  and  what  you  are  doing,  and  what 
other  people  without  lame  backs  are  do 
ing.  There  must  be  a  lot  of  life  left  yet 
to  the  wheel-chair-less  half  of  the  world. 


30  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

You   see   that   is   the   natural    division   to 
me. 

Faithfully  yours,  my  dear  Douglas, 
PERCY  DASHIEL. 


THIRD    LETTER 

MY  DEAR  PERCY  :  — 

I  did  not  speak  of  your  accident  because 
I  imagined  the  subject  had  been  exhausted 
by  your  friends  in  letters  as  well  as  words. 
The  real  value  of  spoken  sympathy  is  prob 
lematical.  It  is  one  of  the  lies  we  train 
ourselves  to  believe  in,  but  "  I'm  so  sorry  " 
seems  to  me  as  empty  a  phrase  as  "  I 
forgive."  The  sympathy  that  takes  an 
active  form,  you  may  judge  me  by  later.  It 
is  impossible  for  me  to  talk  religion  with 
you,  for  I  am  one  of  those  originals  who 
will  not  talk  about  things  of  which  they 
know  nothing.  However,  I  will  tell  you 
that  I  met  at  luncheon  the  other  day  a  Jes 
uit  priest.  Whether  he  was  a  "  lay "  or 

31 


32  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

otherwise,  I  do  not  know,  but  he  struck  me 
as  being  a  brilliant  corporation  lawyer. 
What  he  said  to  me  over  several  small  bran 
dies,  and  what  I  said  to  him,  belongs  to  a 
class  of  professional  secrets,  but  I  do  say 
again,  he  was,  while  speaking  of  his  Church 
and  its  advantages,  as  well  as  in  its  defence, 
a  brilliant  corporation  lawyer;  most  of 
those  Jesuits  are.  You,  of  course,  have  noth 
ing  of  the  priest  about  you,  or  you  could 
not  be  my  dear  old  Pal.  You  are  simply  a 
man  with  a  white  soul  and  inclusive  brain, 
trying  to  turn  black  souls  into  a  dull  gray. 
Oh,  what  a  waste  of  time  is  there,  my  coun 
trymen!  Golden  days  set  in  a  leaden  life 
—  I  prefer  to  string  mine  on  a  band  of  red 
velvet,  something  with  warmth,  colour,  and 
softness. 

I  am  most  desirous  to  know  the  advantage 
of  having  one's  "  great-grandfather  living 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  33 

in  the  same  street,"  and  why  Newport  peo 
ple  should  be  pitied  because  theirs  do  not, 
and  West  Braintree  blessed  because  theirs 
do.  Our  great-grandfathers  were  not  given 
to  "  tubbing,"  and  many  of  them  in  the  same 
street  as  oneself  might  be  undesirable.  Do 
not  worry  about  the  ancestry  of  Newport 
people;  they  have  ancestors,  so  have  tramps, 
so  has  every  one.  The  ability  to  trace  your 
ancestry  back  through  the  mire  of  centuries 
is  about  the  emptiest  glory  I  know  anything 
about.  I  never  knew  a  great  man,  who 
cared  a  damn  about  his  great-grandfather; 
it  was  the  "  Great  I  am  "  he  cared  for. 

Don't  you  sneer  at  an  epigram.  A  good 
one  is  the  wisdom  of  all  the  ages  put  up  in 
a  homoeopathic  pellet,  and  don't  you  think 
I  write  you  cheery  letters  out  of  pure  unself 
ishness.  I  like  to  write  to  you,  and  I  don't 
believe  in  cheering  people  up,  for  the  proc- 


34  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

ess  brings  you  down  to  a  lugubrious  level. 
It  is  like  the  transfusion  of  blood  —  good 
for  the  recipient,  but  aging  to  the  giver. 
It  is  like  the  old  and  young  sleeping  to 
gether.  No,  sir,  I  write  because  I  want  to. 
I  have  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  my 
boy's  school,  where  he  is  absorbing  knowl 
edge  and  developing  muscle.  It  was  the 
occasion  of  a  football  match  between  rival 
schools.  Our  school  won,  and  125  pledges 
of  parental  love  went  voiceless  to  bed.  Do 
you  not  suppose  they  could  be  satisfied  with 
one  "  Rah!  "  instead  of  nine?  My  boy  said 
good-bye  to  me  in  a  whisper  that  wrould 
have  done  credit  to  a  love-sick  maiden. 
I  had  a  very  good  chance  to  send  the  young 
ster  to  a  first-class  English  school,  but  I 
think  the  American  father  who  educates 
a  son  in  England,  whom  he  expects  after 
ward  to  live  in  his  native  country,  is  "  a 


A    PARIS  HOP    TWO  35 

ass."  I  have  seen  one  or  two  such  exotic 
specimens,  and  they  were  for  years  after 
their  return  both  friendless  and  discon 
tented.  By  the  bye,  how  is  it  that  the 
Roman  Catholics  have  no  similar  schools 
in  this  country?  I  have  a  friend  whose 
boy  has  only  a  choice  between  a  good 
Roman  Catholic  school  in  England,  and  a 
comparatively  poor  school  here.  I  suppose 
Georgetown  and  Seton  might  object  to  this 
statement,  but  they  are  not  similar  institu 
tions  to  those  of  which  I  speak. 

I  spent  two  nights  in  Boston,  and  listened 
to  Boston  men  talk.  Why  is  it  they  seem  to 
think  that  a  Boston-born,  Harvard-edu 
cated  man  is  ipso  facto  a  gentleman,  while 
all  the  rest  of  the  male  world  must  first 
prove  themselves  such?  The  law  presumes 
you  innocent  until  proved  guilty.  A  Bos 
ton  man  subconsciously  believes  you  a  cad 


36  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

until  overwhelming  evidence  compels  him 
reluctantly  to  admit  you  are  a  gentle 
man. 

Did  you  ever  notice  how  many  good 
things  come  from  the  Hub?  I  wonder  can 
it  be  that  Boston  is  a  pleasant  place  to  leave, 
and  I  wonder,  oh,  I  wonder,  why  it  is  that, 
when  Boston  married  men  come  to  New 
York  on  business,  they  wear  such  a  guilty 
look. 

In  the  dining-room  of  the  Touraine, 
which  is  one  of  the  hotels  in  the  sacred  city, 
I  saw  something  I  don't  want  to  forget.  I 
saw  a  girl  put  her  hand  up  to  her  mouth, 
and  I  have  not  been  altogether  sane  since. 
First,  the  grace  of  the  movement  was  Ho 
garth's  line  of  beauty.  Second,  the  hand 
was  the  hand  of  fate,  —  of  many  men's  fate, 
—  and  the  mouth  was  a  rose-coloured  sketch 
of  her  heart — perfect  love,  infinite  tender- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  37 

ness,  and  a  marvellously  proportioned  door 
to  both  heart  and  brains.  I  should  like  to 
have  heard  that  mouth  sing  "  Come,  ye 
disconsolate."  I  am  sure  I  should  not  have 
tarried  on  the  way.  Of  course  I  am  sus 
ceptible,  but  I  am  also,  so  far,  preternat- 
urally  virtuous. 

Can  you  answer  this  question,  kind  sir? 
Is  the  marital  morality  of  the  Americans 
due  to  the  men,  or  the  women,  or  to  a  lack 
of  passion  on  the  part  of  both?  Men  who 
take  a  bird's-eye  view  of  life  get  a  better 
sense  of  proportion  and  of  the  "  whyness  " 
of  things  than  I  can,  who  am  too  close  to 
everything  to  know  the  reason  of  anything. 
Certain  it  is  that  in  this  country  it  seldom 
takes  three  to  carry  the  matrimonial  yoke. 

I  cannot  write  you  any  more  to-day,  old 
man,  as  I  am  off  on  a  little  trip  South,  and, 
as  the  faithful  Evans  has  only  been  away 


38  APARISHOFTWO 

from  "  Perfidious  Albion  "  two  months,  his 
idea  of  packing  for  Florida  is  faulty  to  a 
degree.  He  has  one  trunk  already  packed 
full  of  fur  overcoats,  ulsters,  and  wedding 
garments,  and  so  my  cry  for  once  is  not 
Pay,  Pay,  Pay, 

but 

Pack,  Pack,  Pack. 
Yours, 

DOUGLAS. 

You    may    consider    the    above    word 
"  yours "  written  in  indelible  ink. 


FOURTH    LETTER 

West  Braintree,  Mass. 

You  have  a  good  heart,  kind  sir;  do  not 
try  to  deceive  me.  Another  letter  so  soon  in 
answer  to  mine  proves  that,  beyond  perad- 
venture.  Why  should  a  lazy  beggar  like 
you  write  so  often  to  a  lame  beggar  like  me, 
unless  he  have  a  good  heart? 

When  poor  Heine  was  lying  helpless, 
unvisited,  almost  forgotten,  a  visitor  was 
announced.  "  What,"  he  exclaimed,  "  some 
one  visits  me! "  When  Berlioz  was  shown 
into  the  room,  Heine  looked  at  him  and 
said:  "Ah,  it  is  you,  Berlioz!  Well,  you 
were  always  eccentric!"  I  trust  you  will 
not  grow  ashamed  of  being  eccentric  a  mon 
intention.  They  have  had  a  big  medical 

39 


40  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

gun  on  from  your  city  to  look  over  the  rag 
bag  of  bones  who  now  writes  to  you.  Why 
is  it  these  medical  fellows  assume  that  the 
rest  of  us  are  fools?  It  is  perfectly  clear 
to  me  that  I  am  doomed,  and  yet  this  doctor 
mixed  up  a  little  of  his  professional  gibber 
ish  and  hope,  and  left  me  as  uninformed  as 
though  I  were  incapable  of  understanding, 
or  incapable  of  bearing,  my  fate  as  he  saw 
it.  My  brother-in-law  Bob  is  as  non-com 
mittal  as  a  Pythian  oracle  or  a  candidate 
awaiting  a  nomination.  I  tell  them  that 
Pope  was  humpbacked,  so  was  King  John; 
Heine  was  a  cripple,  and  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  was  a  terrible  invalid,  and  yet 
no  one  accused  them  of  having  no  brains. 
Why  should  they  make  of  me  a  child?  It 
is  kindness,  no  doubt  —  the  rough  rule-of- 
thumb  human  kindness  that  babies  what  it 
would  cherish. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  41 

Did  I  accuse  Newport  of  lacking  grand 
fathers?  I  meant  no  such  thing.  I  appre 
hend,  even  in  my  feeble  state,  that  no  such 
mythological  illegitimacy  is  possible  even 
to  the  self-made  man,  my  dear  sir.  Per 
haps  I  was  coerced  into  irritability  by  a 
call  from  a  Southern  lady  who  is  visiting 
my  sister  Katharine.  Bob  brought  her  over 
to  my  pallet  to  amuse  me.  She  deluged 
me  with  her  ancestry.  It  turns  out  that 
her  mother  kept  a  high-class  boarding- 
house  in  New  Orleans,  or  Washington, 
or  somewhere,  and  hence  my  dissertation  on 
the  topic.  It  is  the  self-consciousness  on  the 
subject  that  I  deprecate.  These  worldlings, 
who  have  the  present  in  their  pocketbooks, 
and  the  future  in  the  stock-market,  pine  for 
a  past.  To  me  "  it  is  altogether  sausage," 
as  we  phrased  it  in  Leipzig;  but  you  will 
permit  me  to  be  amused,  my  dear  old  "  our- 


42  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

grandfathers-be-damned  "  !  The  Southern 
lady  harped  much  upon  the  idea  that  I 
must  be  very,  very  lonely.  How  you  herd 
ing  human  beings  do  waste  yourselves  upon 
one  another!  Bob,  who  fritters  away  an 
athletic  existence  in  a  turmoil  of  travel, 
amongst  his  horses,  his  dogs,  his  friends, 
and  his  affairs,  never  enters  my  room  with 
out  hinting  that  my  much-aloneness  must 
be  the  worst  of  my  affliction.  How  often 
I  hear  these  people  say:  "  Oh,  by  the  way, 
I  asked  so-and-so  to  dinner  to-night,  as  I 
heard  he  was  to  be  all  alone."  "  Terrible 
condition,"  they  seem  to  say;  "  let  no  mortal 
be  alone  for  a  single  instant!"  I  am  no 
hater  of  my  fellows,  as  you  know,  but  to 
be  alone  is  not  the  worst  of  evils.  Associa 
tion  without  love  is  very  laborious.  Just 
to  rub  one  indifferent  against  another  indif 
ferent  gives  no  light.  I  am  not  a  dog  that 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  43 

I  must  have  my  nose  in  some  one's  hand  to 
be  content.    To  be  sure,  — 

"  I  am  no  such  pil'd  cynique  to  believe 
That  beggarie  is  the  only  happinesse  ; 
Or  with  a  number  of  those  patient  fooles 
To  sing,  my  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is." 

I  travel  about  a  good  deal  upon  my  cov 
erlet  when  there  are  books  about  me,  and, 
when  Bob  comes  in  to  tell  how  well  the  roan 
mare  goes  as  the  ofT-side  wheeler  of  his 
Four,  I  have  been  saying  my  prayers  with 
Stevenson  in  the  South  Sea  Islands.  Pray 
which  of  us  has  travelled  farther?  Do 
you  know  Stevenson's  prayers?  They  are 
worthy  of  a  place  beside  the  best  prayers 
in  the  prayer-book;  for  example:  "De 
liver  us  from  fear  and  favour:  from  mean 
hopes  and  cheap  pleasures."  And,  "  Purge 
us  from  our  lurking  grudges!"  What 
could  be  subtler  than  that?  Or  this:  "  The 


44  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

day  returns  and  brings  us  the  petty  round 
of  irritating  concerns  and  duties.  Help 
us  to  play  the  man;  help  us  to  perform 
them  with  laughter  and  kind  faces;  let 
cheerfulness  abound  with  industry.  Give 
us  to  go  blithely  on  our  business  all  this 
day;  bring  us  to  our  resting  beds  weary 
and  content  and  undishonoured,  and  grant 
us  in  the  end  the  gift  of  sleep."  And  they 
pity  me,  these  sheep,  because  I  am  alone  - 
I  who  have  been  mining  in  the  South  Seas! 
—  I  who  have  brought  back  such  nuggets 
as  these!  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  I  am  an 
adventurer,  an  explorer.  It  is  I,  here  on 
my  pillows,  who  have  arrived  first  on  the 
mountaintop,  and,  turning  to  the  laggards, 
I  cry:  thalassa,  thalassa,  the  sea,  the  sea, 
when  a  new  planet  swims  into  my  ken.  To 
send  a  man  to  bed,  or  to  start  him  forth  of 
a  morning,  with  peace-bringing  thoughts  in 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  45 

his  head,  what  athlete  can  do  more?  Had 
I  sat  down  to  dinner  with  fourteen  people 
whom  I  loved  not,  and  eaten  fourteen  dishes 
I  needed  not,  and  said  fourteen  things  my 
brain  recked  not,  and  yawned  myself  to  bed 
empty-headed  and  full-stomached,  then  that 
would  have  been  society.  But  I  lay  still 
and  alone,  with  an  ache  in  my  back,  but 
none  in  my  head,  heart,  or  belly;  I  dis 
covered  a  new  planet;  then  that  is  to  be 
alone.  It  is  hard  to  draw  the  line  between 
too  much  and  too  little  activity,  but  I  believe 
the  itch  to  be  doing  undoes  many  a  man. 

But  awake,  Percy,  you  are  writing  to 
Douglas!  I  am  thinking,  my  dear  social 
bee,  that  the  above  must  be  rather  a  hem- 
lockian  potion  for  such  a  social  Socrates 
as  you.  Don't  drink  it,  that's  all.  "  It's 
only  me,"  as  my  Lindley-Murray-less  little 
niece  says  at  my  door. 


46  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

Do  you  remember  the  story  of  Dionysius 
I.,  Tyrant  of  Syracuse?  Like  me,  he  was 
wont  to  be  prosy;  like  me,  it  was  his  habit 
to  write  or  read  to  his  courtiers.  A  certain 
philosopher  of  his  court  criticised  a  poem 
of  his  lord  rather  harshly,  and  was  forth 
with  sent  to  the  quarries  as  a  punishment. 
This  punishment  was  thought  severe,  and 
the  philosopher  was  invited  to  a  public  ban 
quet  to  atone  for  his  misbehaviour.  Again 
the  tyrant  regaled  his  guests  with  a  poem. 
Before  he  had  finished  reading,  the  philos 
opher  turned  to  his  guards  and  said :  "  Take 
me  back  to  the  quarries!"  When  I  prose 
too  much,  turn  on  me  with  that:  "Take 
me  back  to  the  quarries!  "  and  I  will  take 
warning. 

But  what  am  I,  the  worldless  one,  to  write 
of  your  ladies  with  hands  and  mouths  that 
foreshadow  all  that  is  voluptuous?  How  do 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  47 

I  know  why  Boston  men  look  guilty  in  New 
York?  As  to  this  last,  I  may  perhaps  — 
timidly  enough  —  offer  a  suggestion.  So 
ciety  in  Boston  is  still,  you  know,  something 
of  a  family  party,  while  in  New  York  now 
adays  it  may  be  likened  to  a  very  expensive 
table  d'hote.  Perhaps  your  Bostonian  is  a 
little  shy.  Self-consciousness  and  guilt  are 
worlds  apart,  but  they  affect  one's  manners 
in  much  the  same  way.  One  may  be  awk 
ward  through  unfamiliarity  with  new  sur 
roundings,  and  the  look  and  air  of  wanting 
to  escape,  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  awk 
wardness,  marks  the  provincial  as  well  as 
the  thief.  It  may  be  that  your  Boston 
friends  have  not  been  doing  anything 
naughty;  they  are  only  wondering  what 
they  ought  to  do.  I  may  be  wrong.  "  Be 
merciful  to  me  a  fool!" 
Why  are  you  going  South?  Are  you  run- 


48  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

ning  away  from  yourself,  or  from  somebody 
else,  —  or  after  somebody  else? 

You  must  know  how  delighted  I  am  to 
hear  from  your  different  life.  Write  me, 
therefore,  when  you  can,  and  what  you  will. 
Am  I  not  an  ideal  confessor?  I  blame  lit 
tle;  I  listen  with  interest;  I  have  no  temp 
tation  to  tell.  My  life's  little  drama  now 
must  be  played  out  with  such  puppets  as  my 
friends  and  my  books  will  dress  for  me. 
Make  me  thankful,  Thou  great  Dispenser 
of  Events,  that  I  have  eyes  left,  and  may 
read ;  that  this  poor  hand  and  arm,  too  weak 
to  swing  a  sword  or  draw  a  rein,  are  fit  still 
to  wield  a  pen. 

I  am,  my  dear  Douglas,  a  little  weaker, 
I  fear,  but  no  less  gay,  I  hope. 

PERCY  DASHIEL. 


FIFTH    LETTER 

Palm  Beach,  Florida,  January. 
MY  dear  boy,  in  your  last  to  me  there 
is  a  bitter  note.  You  tell  me  with  bitterness 
that  you  have  nothing  to  be  bitter  about. 
This  must  cease.  What  has  made  you  so? 
Is  it  that,  for  the  first  time,  you  have  inter 
ested  the  doctor,  and  you  consider  this  a 
bad  sign,  as  you  know  they  never  become 
interested  until  a  patient  becomes  a  "case?" 
They  are  like  the  men  who  only  become 
excited  at  a  race  when  the  horses  turn  into 
the  home-stretch.  Naturally  they  think  an 
ounce  of  prevention  "  bad  business,"  and 
"  a  pound  of  cure  "  is  worth  a  page  of  ad 
vertisement  in  the  Herald.  My  experience 

49 


50  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

is  that  there  is  no  statement  a  physician 
ever  makes  so  hopeful  as:  "You  can't  get 
well."  Whenever  a  physician  is  positive, 
he's  wrong;  it  is  only  when  he  guesses  that 
sometimes  he  guesses  right.  However, 
there  was  nothing  querulous  in  your  letter, 
so  I  will  forgive.  Of  all  the  notes  in  life, 
the  most  insistent,  the  most  brain-wearing, 
is  the  querulous  note.  It  generally  begins 
with  *'  why,"  and  then  follows  a  question 
that  only  a  fool  would  ask,  and  only  a  fool 
would  answer.  You  perceive  I  am  writing 
this  from  Palm  Beach,  Florida.  I  said  to 
myself:  "  Oh,  for  a  beaker  full  of  the 
warm  South!"  and  lo!  here  I  am  drink 
ing  it  in  copious  and  joyous  gulps. 

I  loaded  myself  down  with  books  and 
papers,  entered  my  stateroom,  and  read  my 
self  into  the  land  of  Nod  and  nosegays. 
Apropos  of  the  newspapers,  would  it  not  be 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  51 

well  for  most  American  morning  newspa 
pers  to  have  a  P.  M.  edition,  entitled  the 
Evening  Retractor,  wherein  the  lies  in 
the  morning  edition  might  be  contradicted? 
In  this  way,  readers  could  have  their  appar 
ently  necessary  sensation  at  breakfast,  and 
still  go  to  bed  with  a  modicum  of  truthful 
news.  I  personally  hate  to  go  to  bed  full 
of  lies.  Apropos  of  the  books  —  they  were 
literary  pancakes,  flat  and  indigestible. 
The  reason  is  our  unwillingness  to  see  in 
print  a  reference  to  what  the  purest  of  us 
may  do  frequently,  and  this  makes  most  of 
the  fiction  of  the  present  day  a  puzzle  to 
write,  and  nonsense  to  read.  It  is  like  two 
engineers  sitting  down  to  talk  about  ma 
chinery,  when  they  must  not  mention  either 
electricity  or  steam.  You  may  speak  of  the 
wheels,  but  you  must  not  refer  to  what 
makes  them  go  around. 


52  APARISHOFTWO 

This  place  is  charming,  a  lake  on  one  side 
and  an  ocean  on  the  other.  So,  if  you  have 
a  preference  for  big  things,  there  is  your 
ocean ;  if  for  little  things,  there  is  your  lake. 
At  any  rate,  there  is  your  contrast,  and  con 
trast,  like  variety,  is  the  spice  of  life. 

Also  I  enjoy  hotel  life  occasionally.  Its 
charm  is  that  you  meet  new  people,  —  the 
charm  of  new  people  is  that,  until  they  be 
come  old  friends,  they  retain  their  "  com 
pany  manners."  The  cause  of  domestic  fric 
tion  is  the  lack  of  company  manners.  Have 
you  never  been  surprised  at  the  irresistible 
attractiveness  of  your  own  wife  when  you 
met  in  society?  No!  Well,  that's  because 
you  never  married.  The  women  here  must 
all  be  the  wives  of  jewellers  or  pawnbrokers, 
and  their  daughters  are  the  gems  of  their 
collections. 

I  never  saw  so  many  "  creations  "  in  flesh 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  53 

and  blood  in  my  life.  This  is  going  to  prove 
a  fearsome  place  to  tread  the  straight  and 
narrow  path.  If  I  find  it  getting  too  narrow 
for  my  footsteps,  I'll  yell  for  help,  and  you 
must  write  me  an  admonitory  letter. 

The  house  is  full,  and  you,  being  a  relig 
ious  man,  will  be  glad  to  know,  so  is  the 
church,  —  not  during  the  service  hours,  — 
but  during  the  night,  as  it  is  at  present  the 
hotel  annex. 

Imagine  hearing  the  clerk  call:  "  Front! 
show  this  gentleman  to  pew  76.  We  cannot 
give  you  a  bathroom,  sir,  but  you  may  wash 
in  the  baptismal  font." 

You  talk  a  good  deal  about  the  pleasure 
you  get  from  books,  but  give  me  human 
books.  Then  all  the  stupid  ones  are  mere 
sketches,  and  take  no  time  to  read,  only 
.the  interesting  are  long.  Wouldn't  you  be 
glad  if  this  were  true  of  printed  matter? 


54  APARISHOFTWO 

For  instance,  there  is  a  woman  of  brains 
here,  who  has  married  a  man  with  an  under 
done  doughnut  in  his  skull.  I  fear  she  be 
longs  to  the  type  of  woman  who,  if  she  ever 
made  any  deviation  from  that  straight  and 
narrow  path,  would  do  so  as  the  result  of 
ennui  rather  than  inclination.  There  are 
such. 

Now,  enough  for  this  morning,  I  am  go 
ing  out  for  a  swim  either  in  the  ocean  or 
in  the  pool.  How  does  swimming  appeal 
to  a  West  Braintree  man  in  January?  I 
can  see  the  goose-flesh  rise  on  you;  you 
must  look  like  a  raised  map. 

Later.  I  have  had  a  swim  in  the  pool, 
and  I  have  been  amused.  There  was  the 
most  entrancing  little  American  maiden 
there  you  ever  feasted  your  eyes  upon.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  bathing-suit,  too  dainty  for 
a  broad-nibbed  pen  to  describe,  and  as  mod- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  55 

est  as  an  artist's  breeze,  that  always  blows 
drapery  where  it  will  do  the  most  good. 
She  has  two  cavaliers,  evidently  under 
graduates.  One,  a  near-sighted  youth,  wore 
a  surtout  overcoat  lined  with  silk;  he  ac 
companied  the  maiden  into  the  pool;  the 
other  sat  and  watched  and  waited,  in  charge 
of  said  overcoat,  on  the  balcony.  For  a 
while  Aphrodite  showed  she  was  to  the 
water  born,  then,  when  her  companion's 
back  was  turned,  she  swam  to  the  side  where 
"  Man  afraid  of  the  water "  stood,  down 
came  a  powerful  arm,  grasped  a  slender 
wrist,  and  Aphrodite  stood  by  his  side;  a 
word  or  two,  and  she  shivered;  in  a  mo 
ment  his  friend's  silk-lined  surtout  was 
wrapped  around  her  dripping  bathing-suit, 
and  they  both  smiled  the  smile  of  the 
wicked.  Down  they  sat  in  two  chairs,  and 
talked  the  talk  that  exhales  the  perfume  of 


56  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

love.  Up  and  down,  and  through  and 
through,  the  water  swam  the  near-sighted 
man,  colder  and  lonelier,  as  the  minutes 
flew  by,  while  the  pool  of  water  in  which 
the  maiden  sat  grew  deeper,  enclosed  as  she 
was  in  his  Melton  coat  of  cost  —  of  great 
cost.  Suddenly  Leander  sees  her,  sees  his 
coat,  and,  with  mighty  strokes,  reaches  her 
side.  A  shriek  of  laughter,  and  the  maiden 
dives  into  the  pool;  the  considerate  one 
disappears. 

Now  how  deliciously  American  that  all 
was!  Can  you  imagine  an  Englishman 
ruining  a  friend's  ninety-dollar  overcoat  in 
a  playful  spirit  of  chivalry?  I  should  like 
to  know  that  girl,  wouldn't  you? 

I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  my 
wife,  or  rather  a  moan  —  all  her  letters 
are  moans,  as  all  her  mole-hills  are  moun 
tains,  Alps  on  Andes.  She  questions  me: 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  57 

"  How  are  you  to  cross  this  impassable 
barrier?  "  "  Walk,"  is  my  answer. 

"  But  suppose  you  are  opposed  by  a  par- 
allelopipedon "  (I  don't  know  what  that 
means,  but  it  sounds  big). 

"  I  would  crush  the  ant,"  is  my  answer. 

She  explains  the  difference  between  the 
parallelopipedon  and  the  ant. 

I  retort:  "I  would  go  around  the  other 
side." 

"Ah!"  she  exclaims,  "but  there,  if  you 
were  met  by  an  ichthyosaurus,  what  would 
you  do?" 

"  I  would  crush  the  ant,"  is  my  answer. 
She  explains  once  more. 

I  am  silent.  Then  she  cries,  and  I  go  out 
and  look  upon  the  Scotch  whiskey  when  it 
is  yellow. 

Poor  dear,  when  she  goes  to  heaven,  if 
she  has  nothing  but  cumulous  clouds  to 


58  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

climb  over,  she  won't  get  enough  exer 
cise. 

Then  she  is  so  truthful  —  alas,  so  truth 
ful.  My  dear  boy,  for  every-day  use,  in 
every-day  life,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being 
too  addicted  to  the  deadly  truth.  Some  re 
ligious  people  would  give  a  pill  in  jam, 
when  they  would  not  disguise  the  truth  to 
soften  a  blow. 

And  now,  "  in  conclusion,"  as  you  clergy 
men  say,  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I 
mean  you  shall  consider  yourself  of  more 
importance.  You  are,  in  the  bottom  of  your 
heart,  disgruntled  because,  in  your  present 
condition,  you  cannot  "  do  "  things.  Is  it 
not  better  to  "  be  "  than  to  "  do?  "  Listen : 
the  Bible  says:  "John  performed  no  mira 
cles."  It  will  be  the  "  Johns  "  you  will  hear 
about  in  the  next  world ;  the  others  you  hear 
about  now.  Men,  who  were  busy  doing 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  59 

big  things  according  to  a  little  world  stand 
ard,  will  then  find  themselves  eclipsed  by 
those  who  have  done  little  things  by  God's 
standard. 

I  don't  offer  you  sympathy,  for  sympathy 
is  only  sugar-coated  pity,  and  you  abhor 
pity  as  I  do. 

Yours  as  ever, 

DOUGLAS. 


SIXTH   LETTER 

West  Braintree. 

EITHER,  my  Lothario,  you  are  writing  for 
publication,  or  you  have  been  to  church  and 
stolen  the  peroration  of  a  sermon.  Such, 
at  least,  is  the  impression  made  upon  me  by 
the  eloquent  close  of  your  last  letter.  Were 
it  not  that  your  punctuation  is  of  the  worst, 
and  my  habit  of  tearing  up  answered  letters 
well  known  to  you,  verily,  I  should  suspect 
you  of  literary  ambitions.  But  if  you  think 
I  am  going  to  die  for  the  sake  of  an  epis 
tolary  serial,  you  are  mightily  mistaken. 
In  any  case,  this  last  letter  of  yours  would 
play  havoc  in  your  home  circle  if  it  ever 

escaped  beyond  the  portals  of  this  room. 

60 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  61 

It  has  been  concealed  under  my  pillow, 
and,  when  I  am  moved  into  my  chair  for 
the  day,  I  shall  burn  it  and  a  pastille. 
The  atmosphere  here  won't  stand  it.  What 
with  your  water-nymphs,  your  husbands 
with  "  underdone  doughnuts "  in  their 
skulls,  your  flippant  dialogue  on  domestic 
subjects,  and  your  luxurious  Oriental  quaf 
fing  of  beakers  of  sun-streaked  lascivious- 
ness,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  how  it  ever 
happened  that  you  are  writing  to  me,  and  I 
am  writing  to  you  —  no  one  else  shall  know 
of  it  if  I  can  help  it.  Ridentem  dicere 
verum,  quid  vetat?  Are  you  not  prepar 
ing  for  yourself  complications,  by  walking 
carelessly  into  a  maze  in  which  the  paths 
intertwine  so  endlessly  that,  when  you  are 
ready  to  come  out,  you  cannot  find  a  way? 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  read  of  youths 
of  similar  Wein  und  W elb  tendenzen,  who 


62  A    PARISH    OF   TWO 

found  their  names  in  large  black  letters,  at 
the  top  of  a  column  in  the  Tawny  Tips  from 
Town,  or  some  equally  pornocratic  sheet, 
one  fine  morning.  I  dislike  to  think  of  you 
in  that  predicament. 

I  admit  the  charm  of  studying  "  human  " 
books,  but  it  is,  on  the  whole,  a  lazy  habit. 
Who  would  go  botanising  without  first 
reading  up  on  the  subject;  or  who  would 
claim  to  be  an  entomologist  on  the  strength 
of  having  watched  the  movements  of  a  few 
beetles?  On  etudie  les  livres  en  attendant 
qu'on  etudie  les  hommes;  it's  true,  but 
at  least  one  studies  the  books  first.  I  in 
cline  to  think  that  you  gentlemen  who  pro 
claim  yourselves  collectors  of  Papiliones 
fern,  for  scientific  purposes,  are  humbugs, 
after  all.  One  good  woman  is  the  solution 
of  all  the  social  problems,  and  it  is  time 
wasted  to  know  more.  If  I  were  you,  I 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  63 

should  pack  up  my  corks  and  pins,  fly-net 
and  bottle  of  ether,  and  make  tracks  for 
home.  You  are  not  enlarging  your  experi 
ence  down  there;  you  are  merely  making 
your  liver  less  amenable,  —  particularly  if 
you  are  drinking  whiskey  in  that  lati 
tude. 

It  makes  me  shiver,  as  you  suggest,  to 
think  of  bathing  in  the  open  air  these  days. 
Our  roads  are  deep  with  snow;  the  fences 
and  trees  have  put  on  their  ermine,  and  all 
nature  is  as  stiff  as  though  it  had  a  con 
science,  and  were  reading  your  last  letter. 
The  moral  contrast  is  as  great  as  that  of 
nature.  There  is  joy  in  New  England,  but 
it  is  never  unconfmed.  I  remember,  after 
my  sabbatical  year  in  Europe,  coming  di 
rectly  home  from  Italy.  The  absence  of 
laughter,  chatter,  gaiety,  gesticulation  in 
the  streets  seemed  very  strange  to  me  at 


64  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

first.  The  self-consciousness  and  self-con 
straint  of  my  neighbours  in  West  Braintree 
touched  me.  I  felt  that  they  were  sad.  I 
felt  tempted  to  slap  Ebed  on  the  back,  to 
poke  Nehemiah  in  the  ribs,  to  crack  a  joke 
with  Solomon,  —  all  neighbours  of  mine, 
—  bid  them  be  of  good  cheer,  that  the  Day 
of  Judgment  had  been  postponed.  But  this 
gloom  is  only  skin-deep,  as  is,  by  the  way, 
much  of  the  gaiety  of  the  Latin  races. 
These  Yankees  are  great  optimists.  It  is 
they  who  settled  Kansas,  they  who  made 
the  backbone  of  Chicago's  prosperity,  they 
who  built  the  first  great  transcontinental 
railroads,  they  who  founded  the  first  uni 
versities,  they  who  fought  the  war  of  1812, 
and  they  who  carried  through  the  Revolu 
tion  and  the  Rebellion.  You  would  find 
Ebed  and  Solomon  and  Nehemiah  dull 
companions  on  the  edge  of  a  swimming- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  65 

pool  in  Florida,  but  you  would  find  them 
most  dependable  on  the  edge  of  any  dan 
gerous  or  laborious  enterprise.  And  their 
women  are  sober,  silent,  and  fertile,  three 
most  desirable,  if  not  the  most  desirable, 
attributes  in  woman.  You  idlers,  with  your 
one  or  two  chicks,  your  hurrying-skurrying 
wives,  playing  Cleopatra  to  any  number  of 
Antonys,  what  are  they  and  their  softness 
to  these  and  their  hardness?  It  amuses  me 
to  look  over  the  names  of  your  notables  in 
New  York,  and  to  see  how  they  nearly  all 
come  from  country  stock.  Your  great 
banker,  of  Connecticut  breeding;  your  one 
time  governor  and  Vice-President  of  the 
United  States,  the  son  of  a  poor  parson; 
your  governor  —  at  the  time  I  write  —  a 
one-time  ice-man  from  a  country  town; 
your  parsons,  your  lawyers,  your  financial 
magnates,  your  physicians,  your  engineers. 


66  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

your  contractors,  your  architects,  nearly  all 
men  from  the  country.  They  had  no  flirt 
ing  mothers,  no  nymph-baiting  fathers. 
The  Almighty  is  a  great  socialist.  It  ap 
pals  me  that  any  body  of  men  should  at 
tempt  to  rearrange  the  wealth  and  power 
of  the  world  better  than  He  does  it. 
Money  and  luxury  are  their  own  danger. 
Instead  of  great  wealth  being  a  problem, 
it  takes  care  of  itself,  by  steadily  and  rap 
idly  devouring  its  possessors.  Pain  is  part 
of  the  permanent  destiny  of  mankind,  and 
all  attempts  to  avoid  it  by  living  softly,  by 
sheltering  oneself  from  the  common  storms 
of  humanity,  only  weaken,  and  soften  and 
finally  slay  those  who  adopt  that  attitude 
toward  life.  This  Cleopatratising  of  the 
Antonys  of  the  world  seems  to  be  God's, 
or  nature's,  way  of  distributing  the  good 
things  of  life.  Unless  life  is  hard,  we  poor 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  67 

humans  somehow  lose  our  mental,  moral 
and  physical  muscle.  Unless  there  is  much 
to  overcome,  our  power  of  overcoming  be 
comes  enfeebled;  thus  do  families  languish 
and  waste  away  and  their  wealth  and  power 
go  to  the  next  lot  of  barbarians  who  capture 
their  Rome.  The  great  problem  in  life  is 
not  to  make  it  easy,  but  to  make  it  just  hard 
enough  to  keep  our  best  abilities  in  proper 
training.  Few  men  can  do  that,  either  for 
themselves  or  their  children.  There  being 
no  driving  power  of  necessity,  most  men  do 
little,  or  at  any  rate,  not  enough.  Men  who 
have  worked  their  way  up  through  perils 
and  dangers  and  deprivations,  go  about  it 
—  foolishly  enough  —  to  make  life  too  easy 
for  their  sons,  and  their  sons  do  not  profit, 
but  more  often  suffer  from  this. 

"  Nil  sine  magno 
Vita  labore  dedit  mortalibus," 


68  APARISHOFTWO 

writes  Horace,  —  rather  a  soft  gentleman 
himself,  but  his  philosophy  is  sound. 

I  have  been  reading  this  letter,  and  I 
fancy  I  can  hear  you  saying:  "Take  me 
back  to  the  quarries!"  You  see,  you  are 
my  congregation  now,  and,  like  the  Swiss 
hero,  you  receive  all  the  lances  in  your  one 
bosom. 

I  have  been  reading  Stevenson's  Life,  by 
Balfour,  Green  —  of  the  Short  History  of 
the  English  People  —  by  Leslie  Stephen, 
and  —  not  so  far  away  as  it  seems  —  "  Don 
Quixote."  Strange  that  there  should  still 
be  superficial  fools  who  think  "  Don  Quix 
ote  "  is  a  satire  upon  knight-errantry.  It 
is  invigorating  to  know  of  such  men  as 
Stevenson  and  Green  —  both  invalids,  both 
pushing  death  on  one  side  with  a  smile, 
that  they  might  work  a  little  longer;  both 
accomplishing  great  tasks  that  it  would 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  69 

stagger  most  strong  men  to  contemplate. 
My  poor  old  back  gets  a  bit  straighter  as 
I  read,  and  it  is  borne  in  upon  me  that  I 
am  a  puling  thing  to  whimper  or  complain. 
But  they  never  had  a  taste  of  the  physical 
fulness  of  life  as  I  had.  It  is  the  memory 
of  my  freedom  that  at  times  makes  me  rest 
less  in  this  physical  slavery.  The  pen  seems 
a  poor  plaything  after  one  has  held  a  gun, 
a  whip,  a  sword.  But  no  more  of  me.  In 
deed,  I  beg  pardon  for  so  much  of  me. 
What  about  you?  What  became  of  the 
myopic  gentleman's  surtout?  Is  it  the 
water-lily,  or  the  spouse  of  him  with  the 
cephalic  damp  doughnut?  How  is  the 
whiskey  in  the  land  of  the  Seminoles? 
When  are  you  coming  back?  When  are 
you  writing  me  again?  soon,  I  trust.  We 
are  all  well.  Bob  and  Katharine  are  now 
in  their  town  house,  and  I  see  them  when 


7o  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

they  run  out  here  for  a  Sunday.  I  miss  the 
children.  I  am  off  to  Spain  presently  with 
Sancho.  Au  revoir! 

PERCY  DASHIEL. 


SEVENTH    LETTER 

DEAR  BOY:  — 

Your  defence  of  the  New  Englander  is 
convincing,  but  it  does  not  interest  me;  at 
present  nothing  interests  me  except  myself, 
but  your  three  most  desirable  attributes  of 
women  made  me  roar.  Why,  man,  I  ex 
pect  to  find  them  "sober;"  I  should  hate 
to  find  them  "  silent "  and  "  fertile." 
That's  as  you  like.  My  idea  is  beauty, 
tenderness,  and  sterility.  I  will  not  dis 
appoint  you  —  I  admit  I  have  a  longing 
"  to  go  back  to  the  quarries." 

"  I  walk  down  de  street 
Wif  ma  gun  in  ma  han'  — 
Nobody  knows  how  bad  I  am. 
I  look  out  de  window  and  I  look  on  de  shelf — 
I'm  so  bad  I'm  a-skeered  of  myself." 


72  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

That's  my  condition  exactly,  so  no  words 
of  wisdom  from  you  or  any  one  else  will 
keep  me  from  enjoying  to  the  full  this  one 
wee  holiday. 

I  was  out  walking  this  morning,  and  I 
heard  a  negro  wench  singing;  here  is  the 
refrain:  — 

"  What  do  I  care  for  your  words  of  wisdom  ? 
What  do  I  care  for  your  house  and  Ian'  ? 
What  do  I  care  for  your  gold  and  silver  ? 
What  I  want  is  a  han'some  man." 

There's  philosophy  for  you;  change  the 
sex  of  the  wished-for  one,  and  you  have  my 
sentiments. 

Do  you  know  Jno.  J.  Ingalls's  "  Oppor 
tunity?  "  Here  it  is:  — 

"OPPORTUNITY 

"  Master  of  human  destinies  am  I  ! 
Fame,  love,  and  fortune  on  my  footsteps  wait. 
Cities  and  fields  I  walk.      I  penetrate 
Deserts  and  seas  remote,  and  passing  by 
Hovel  and  mart  and  palace,  soon  or  late 
I  knock  unbidden  once  at  every  gate  ! 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  73 

If  sleepy,  wake  ;  if  feasting,  rise  before 
I  turn  away.      It  is  the  hour  of  fate, 
And  they  who  follow  me  reach  every  state 
Mortals  desire,  and  conquer  every  foe 
Save  death  :   but  those  who  doubt  or  hesitate, 
Condemned  to  failure,  penury,  and  woe, 
Seek  me  in  vain,  and  uselessly  implore. 
I  answer  not,  and  I  return  no  more  !  " 

This  is  my  opportunity,  and  I  do  not  pro 
pose  to  "  doubt  or  hesitate."  Just  at  pres 
ent  I  am  consulting  my  own  wishes,  which 
is  equivalent  to  consulting  one's  health. 
People  who  think  of  others  are  apt  to  die 
young.  They  are  known  as  "  shining 
marks."  However,  as  yet  I  have  done 
nothing  wrong.  To  misquote  Disraeli:  "  I 
am  inebriated  with  the  exuberance  of  my 
own  virtuosity." 

Some  people  serve  simply  as  loam  to  de 
velop  the  soil  of  other  people's  lives.  I 
have  been  rather  a  successful  loam  for  some 
time.  Permit  me  to  blossom  on  my  own 


74  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

account  for  a  moment.     So  now  you  are 
answered. 

However,  whatever  happens  to  me  won't 
happen  here,  as  I  intend  leaving  to-morrow 
for  Aiken,  South  Carolina,  where  I  know 
many  people.  People  make  a  place;  that 
is,  they  do  to  gregarious  birds  like  my 
self,  and  here  I  am  a  bit  lonely. 

Aiken. 

I  have  been  here  a  week,  and  too  busy 
to  write.  To  live  through  a  winter  at 
Aiken,  you  need  as  many  lives  as  a  cat, 
there  is  so  much  to  do,  but  it  also  means 
rejuvenescence;  it  means  the  unloading  of 
a  few  years  upon  the  back  of  Time.  The 
winter  climate  is  May,  well  peppered  with 
December.  Life  here  is  above  all  things 
healthy,  and  the  women,  God  bless  'em,  are 
superb.  The  new  woman's  heart  can  take 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  75 

care  of  itself,  the  new  woman's  brains  need 
burnishing,  for  the  new  woman's  health  is 
occupying  most  of  her  time  and  attention. 
In  olden  days  women  took  medicine;  now 
they  take  exercise.  They  used  to  put  col 
our  on  their  cheeks  with  the  tip  of  a  fox's 
tail;  now  they  chase  the  fox's  tail  over  the 
hills  and  far  away,  and  find  their  colour 
in  the  rushing  wind  rather  than  in  a  box. 
They  used  to  swing  in  hammocks ;  now  they 
balance  themselves  on  wheels.  Forty  years 
ago,  a  woman  who  did  not  scream  at  the 
sight  of  a  gun  and  say,  "  Take  the  horrid 
thing  away,"  would  have  been  considered 
untrue  to  the  traditions  of  her  sex;  now 
many  of  them  shoot  admirably.  They  row, 
ride  wheels,  and  golf,  and  many  women 
in  society  could  thrash  their  husbands. 
This  is  not  a  pretty  thought,  but  true. 
Health  and  strength  add  to  a  woman's  at- 


76  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

tractions.  Fresh  outdoor  exercise  does  not, 
as  some  suppose,  interfere  with  womanly 
tenderness.  Watch  one  of  these  modern 
Amazons  with  her  children,  and  you  dis 
cover  that  a  bright  eye  and  a  clear  com 
plexion  is  not  incompatible  with  womanly 
love.  Then,  in  the  evening,  when  she  has 
changed  her  tailor-made  gown  for  some 
thing  as  pretty  and  effeminate  as  anything 
her  grandmother  ever  wore,  you  find  that, 
though  she  has  shared  your  sports,  she  won't 
share  your  heart,  —  for  she  takes  it  all. 

Do  you  remember  my  telling  you  in  one 
of  my  letters  of  a  girl  I  saw  at  the  Touraine 
in  Boston,  whose  grace  of  movement  had 
left  me  slightly  daft?  Well,  she  is  here.  I 
saw  her  first  when  lunching  at  Wilcox's. 
She  is  not  exactly  a  girl.  She  is  married, 
and  her  name  is  —  well,  never  mind  her 
name.  I  may  write  to  you  more  fully  about 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  77 

her  if  I  know  you  cannot  trace  her,  for, 
mark  you,  that  woman  will  be  a  factor  in 
my  life. 

Very  few  men  live  their  lives  influenced 
only  by  one  woman.  In  the  book  of  every 
man's  life  there  has  been  more  than  one 
heroine.  Man  is  many-sided,  a  pivoting 
prism,  a  different  side  presenting  itself  to 
the  world  as  the  years  roll  by.  The  woman 
who  appeals  to  him  at  one  time  does  not 
at  another.  His  experiences  may  not  be 
progressive,  but  are  certainly  varied. 

I  have  met  her,  and  also  her  husband. 
The  Creator  was  short  of  good  clay  when 
he  made  that  man,  so  he  made  him  of  ooze, 
and  let  him  harden  in  the  sun.  He  affects 
to  be  clever  and  a  cynic.  It  has  been  said 
that  a  cynic  is  "  a  man  who  knows  the  price 
of  everything  and  the  value  of  nothing." 
That  is  the  being  in  question  to  a  T.  The 


78  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

other  evening  Mrs.  B.,  as  I  shall  call  her, 
came  to  a  little  dance  in  a  gown  that  looked 
like  a  spider's  web  be-diamonded  with  dew. 
It  was  bewitching.  Turning  to  her  hus 
band  in  my  presence,  she  said:  "  Now,  Ed 
ward,  you  must  admit  this  is  becoming." 

Looking  at  her  with  a  curl  of  his  lip,  he 
answered : 

"  There  are  some  women  who,  in  the  eyes 
of  their  husbands,  could  wear  no  gowns  so 
becoming  as  their  shrouds." 

A  quotation  from  a  man's  lips  is  often 
a  better  description  of  him  than  pages  of 
written  matter.  So  now  you  know  him. 

I  saw  her  again  at  golf  the  next  morning. 
She  is  as  refreshing  in  the  morning  as  she 
is  ravishing  at  night.  She  told  me  she  had 
had  "  a  ride,  a  cold  bath,  and  a  breakfast, 
and  she  felt  like  health  personified."  Now, 
you  old  West  Braintree  misogynist,  let  me 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  79 

tell  you.  She  may  have  had  her  ride,  she 
may  have  had  her  breakfast,  but  she  never 
could  have  had  a  cold  bath,  for  the  reflect 
ing  water  would  have  turned  warm  at  her 
approach. 

Enough,  you  think  me  crazy  —  well,  I 
am.  Yours, 

DOUGLAS. 


EIGHTH    LETTER 

West  Braintree. 

DEAR  DOUGLAS:  — 

I  have  your  letter  from  Aiken  —  and  a 
pain  in  my  back.  Both  remind  me  forcibly 
that  there  is  much  to  be  said  for  Haeckel's 
theory  that  we  are  only  ephemerides,  after 
all.  He  holds  that  we  are  made  literally 
from  the  dust  of  the  earth.  If  he  knew  you, 
he  would  preserve  you  in  alcohol,  as  proof 
of  it.  Flesh  we  are,  and  flesh  we  must  gloat 
over;  dust  we  are,  and  to  dust  we  must 
return,  sing  you.  I  wonder  if  your  gay 
humour  is  not  a  cloak  for  something  bitter. 
When  ambitious  men,  or  able  men,  have 
a  cover  put  on  them  that  prevents  their 

going  up,  they  spread  out  instead.     The 

80 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  81 

more  one  spreads,  the  thinner  one  gets,  until 
we  become  what  is  known  as  superficial  — 
superficial  in  our  likes,  in  our  dislikes,  in 
our  work,  in  our  loyalties  even,  until  it 
seems  easy  to  break  through  anywhere,  so 
thin  are  all  the  barriers.  My  dear  boy,  you 
don't  want  to  become  like  that!  I  call  you 
"  boy,"  for  any  man  is  a  boy  who  remains 
as  inconsequential  as  you  are. 

A  minister  came  to  see  me  the  other  day. 
He  had  been  at  one  time  over  a  large  and 
prominent  city  church.  There  was  a  quar 
rel,  backbiting,  recriminations,  and  he  was 
shouldered  out.  He  is  now  in  a  small  coun 
try  church.  He  whined  and  criticised,  and 
deplored  his  fate  to  me.  Poor  me!  Of 
my  troubles  not  a  word,  of  his  a  sea  of 
words.  Of  the  miseries  of  others  no 
thought;  with  his  own  his  brain  was  reek 
ing.  Now  when  God  Almighty  whips  a 


82  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

man,  He  does  it  because  he  goes  too  slow, 
and  ought  to  go  faster;  or  because  he  goes 
too  fast,  and  should  not;  but  in  any  case, 
the  whipping  comes  because  the  lashed  one 
deserves  it,  and  when  I  get  mine,  I  go 
whimpering  to  no  man  —  I  hope  you  do 
not.  The  Reverend  Mr.  X.  had  his  poor 
little  ecclesiastical  house  of  cards  pulled 
down,  —  he  must  perforce  shed  his  tears 
upon  every  brother  man's  waistcoat. 

His  ambition  flattened  out  and  become 
thin,  he  becomes  sour.  Your  ambitions 
flattened  out  a  little,  and  you  become  gaily 
indifferent.  Neither  is  good  or  manly. 
Though  I  admit,  strictly  to  you,  that  I  al 
ways  prefer  the  methods  of  the  world  in 
such  matters  to  the  methods  of  the  religious. 
Lying  here,  I  think  a  deal  of  matters  that 
others  pass  by,  because  so  much  of  their 
time  goes  in  action.  I  often  wonder  at  the 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  83 

rather  effeminate  immorality  of  the  cloth. 
This  man  I  mention  would  not  steal,  nor 
get  drunk,  nor  commit  adultery,  nor  stoop 
to  fisticuffs  at  midnight  in  the  street.  But 
he  was  not  ashamed  to  backbite,  to  pile  his 
disappointments  on  another's  disappoint 
ments,  to  hug  his  miseries,  that  he  might 
the  more  easily  peddle  them  when  custom 
ers  came.  He  exaggerated;  he  was  not 
strictly  truthful.  The  weaker  vices  were 
all  his.  He  was  well  within  the  law  in 
his  crimes,  and  still,  I  thought,  more  guilty 
than  more  than  one  red-blooded  rascal  I 
have  known.  It  is  curious  how  despicable 
a  man  can  be,  and  yet  in  the  letter  break 
none  of  the  commandments.  I  don't  know 
that  this  is  good  ethical  doctrine  for  such 
as  you,  but,  like  other  old  grannies,  I  sup 
pose  I  have  a  weakness  for  the  frailties  of 
those  I  love.  "  There  never  was  a  rogue, 


84  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

who  had  not  a  salvo  to  himself  for  being 
so,"  writes  Richardson  in  "  Clarissa."  I 
make  no  doubt  that  if  you  are  ever  put  to  it, 
you  will  not  need  me  to  invent  excuses  for 
you.  But  for  God's  sake  —  and  I  use  the 
phrase  reverently  and  advisedly — don't 
whine  if  you  ever  do  get  a  licking!  That 
ought  to  be  the  difference  between  a  real 
man  and  a  make-believe  man,  that  the  one 
does  not,  and  the  other  does,  cry  when  he 
is  hurt.  All  the  professions  which  make  a 
demand  upon  a  man  for  much  self-expres 
sion,  such  as  that  of  the  actor,  the  public 
orator,  the  preacher,  even  the  artist  who 
expresses  himself  with  clay  or  paint,  seem 
to  inculcate  an  unmanly  lack  of  modesty. 
Such  people  are  dearer  to  women  than  to 
men.  The  habit  of  giving  way  to  one's 
feelings  in  preaching,  or  acting,  or  public 
speaking  generally,  —  permissible  enough 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  85 

on  occasions  when  the  duties  of  the  profes 
sion  demand  it,  —  breeds  a  temperament 
that  permits  itself  the  luxury  of  public  con 
fession  when  such  self-betrayal  is  eminently 
undignified.  One  gets  into  the  way  of  ask 
ing  an  unfair  share  of  other  people's  atten 
tion  and  sympathy.  As  I  grow  older,  and 
especially  now  that  I  am  at  the  mercy  of 
those  who  come  to  see  me,  I  note,  with 
wonder,  how  my  brother  men  are  wrapped 
closely  in  the  matter  of  their  own  interests, 
and  most  of  them  would  fain  have  you 
cover  yourself  with  a  corner  of  their  gar 
ment  while  they  are  with  you.  It  is  a  dif 
ficult  thing,  I  know,  to  draw  the  line  be 
tween  that  necessary  selfishness  which  un 
derlies  the  law  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest, 
which  no  man  can  break  and  live,  and  the 
unbecoming  selfishness  which  is  always 
rude,  and  often  cruel.  It  were  a  work  of 


86  APARISHOFTWO 

supererogation  to  try  to  draw  that  line  in 
every  word  and  action  of  one's  life,  and 
yet  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  it  is  he  who 
comes  nearest  to  it  who  is  most  the  gentle 
man.  My  clerical  friend,  despite  his  office, 
was  clearly  not  a  gentleman.  And  now, 
"  my  son  in  God,"  as  the  ancient  ecclesias 
tical  phrase  is,  —  and  what  a  beautiful 
phrase  it  is,  —  one  may,  I  think,  carry  flip 
pancy  and  triviality  to  the  point  where  one 
becomes  effeminate,  though  in  a  diametric 
ally  opposite  way  from  my  clerical  friend. 
Though  self-confession  is  bad,  the  cloak  of 
a  false  gaiety  and  a  cynical  good  humour 
is,  it  seems  to  me,  but  a  poor  habit  of  mind, 
and  a  mean  habit  of  body.  It  is  just  as 
much  a  sign  of  weakness,  the  one  as  the 
other.  Both  mark  the  man  who  is  domi 
nated  by  the  world.  "  The  world  is  in  the 
saddle,"  —  the  world  that  you  and  I  ought 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  87 

to  ride.  If  I  were  as  fond  of  epigrams  as 
you  and  Rochefoucauld,  I  might  say  that 
one  must  ride  the  world  even  to  be  a  man 
at  all,  and  that  one  must  ride  it  gracefully 
to  be  a  gentleman. 

Alas,  that  I  should  be  forever  preaching 
to  you,  but  I  have  never  known  a  congre 
gation  needing  it  more  than  you,  my  par 
ish  of  one.  One  of  my  old  friends,  when  I 
read  him  by  the  basketful,  and  not  by  piece 
meal,  as  now  I  must,  George  Herbert  by 
name,  wrote  that  "  All  preaching's  folly," 
and  I  suppose  at  bottom  he  was  right.  The 
only  competent  criticism  of  any  man  is  to 
be  better  than  he  is.  And  that,  I  take  it, 
is  what  makes  so  much  preaching  folly  in 
deed.  I  can  hear  you  scoff  at  the  worldly 
advice  of  a  broken-vertebraed  celibate, 
whose  tour  du  monde  is  from  bed  to  chair 
and  back  again.  But  those  who  are  de- 


barred  from  committing  sins  of  the  flesh 
may  still  commit  sins  of  the  spirit  in  plenty. 
By  the  way,  Bob  has  taken  Cynthia  to  town, 
and  he  and  Katharine  are  "  bringing  her 
out,"  whatever  that  means.  So  far  as  I  can 
make  out,  Bob  now  has  two  establishments 
on  his  hands,  —  one  here  in  the  country, 
and  one  in  town,  and  he  and  Katharine  are 
as  much  buried  in  the  details  of  running 
them  as  though  they  were  partners  in  a 
large  business  house.  Bob's  mail  alone,  he 
tells  me,  is  a  daily  avalanche,  and  Katha 
rine,  poor  sister,  has  two  cooks,  two  kitchen 
maids,  two  everything,  to  manoeuvre 
through  the  labyrinth  of  life.  Bob,  who 
has  a  shelf  full  of  Fairman  Rogers,  and 
Underbill,  and  Hewlett,  and  the  Lord 
knows  who  else,  on  "  Driving,"  etc.,  etc., 
came  to  me,  wringing  his  hands  in  despair, 
because  the  cab  company  turned  him  out 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  89 

with  both  coachman  and  footman  with  ex 
actly  the  same  number  of  buttons  on  their 
greatcoats.  You  and  I,  poor  fools,  do  not 
know  that  the  footman  should  have  six  but 
tons  on  the  tails  of  his  coat,  and  the  coach 
man  only  four,  but  five  buttons  on  the  front 
of  his  coat,  and  the  coachman  six.  Thus, 
you  see,  there  are  multitudinous  troubles 
in  life  of  which  we  have  no  inkling  even. 
We  are  spared  something  by  our  ignorance. 
There  is  a  fourth  dimension  of  space  in 
etiquette  into  which  we  have  never  pene 
trated.  Think  how  complicated  life  may 
be  to  those  who  know  so  much!  I  rather 
admire  Bob,  though,  for  his  thoroughness. 
He  has  a  dogged  way  of  getting  to  the  root 
of  even  trivial  matters,  that  promises  great 
things  if  he  is  ever  confronted  with  a  big 
problem.  There's  a  young  man  who  rides 
his  world  —  such  as  it  is  —  for  you!  But 


90  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

I  know  you  like  him  as  much  as  I  do.  I 
will  tell  you  more  of  them  some  day.  I 
want  to  write  "  The  Log  of  a  Debutante," 
but  Cynthia  and  Katharine,  Cynthia's 
mamma,  tell  me  that  the  theme  is  too  in 
tricate  and  altogether  beyond  my  powers. 

Don't  make  an  ass  of  yourself  just  pour 
passer  le  temps.  I  repeat  the  cry  of  the 
man  who  peddles  candies  through  the  cars 
before  the  train  starts:  "Remember  the 
little  ones  at  home!"  I  am, 

Yours  (don't  make  me  less  so), 
PERCY  DASHIEL. 


NINTH    LETTER 

DEAR  PERCY:  — 

I  have  not  written  you  for  three  weeks, 
because  I  have  not  had  the  stomach  for  it; 
your  last  letter  was  so  ponderously  didac 
tic,  so  out  of  proportion  to  any  little  fault 
I  may  have  committed  in  your  eyes,  that 
it  seemed  like  Jove  choosing  his  heaviest 
bolt  of  lightning  with  which  to  kill  a  little 
child.  You  say,  "  For  God's  sake,  don't 
whine  if  you  ever  get  a  licking."  I  pray 
what  has  ever  led  you  to  suppose  I  would 
whine?  There  are  other  consolations  in 
the  hour  of  trouble  besides  whining,  relig 
ion,  or  drink.  I'm  not  likely  to  take  to  any 
of  the  above  three.  You  inveigh  against 

selfishness,  and  yet  admit  you  find  it  diffi- 

91 


92  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

cult  to  "  cover  yourself  with  the  garments 
of  others  when  they  are  with  you."  In 
other  words,  it  would  seem  you  are  so 
wrapped  up  in  yourself  that  it  is  painful 
for  you  to  wear  the  sackcloth  of  others  for 
a  moment,  while  they  rest.  Perhaps  this 
is  a  form  of  selfishness  —  who  knows? 
Take  Charles  Reade's  advice,  and  put 
yourself  in  his  place. 

One  more  reason  why  I  have  not  written 
before,  is  because  I  could  only  write  on  one 
subject,  and  of  that  I  know  you  would  dis 
approve,  but,  if  you  care  to  hear  from  me 
at  all,  it  must  be  of  my  ravings,  for  surely 
am  I  possessed  of  a  devil.  Again  I  say 
frankly,  I  have  no  respect  for  the  opinion 
of  a  clergyman  in  regard  to  temptation  and 
sin,  of  which  he  knows  nothing  except  by 
hearsay.  What  would  you  think  of  a  doc 
tor  who  attempted  a  case  of  which  he  knew 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  93 

nothing  except  what  others  had  told  him? 
Clergymen  are  always  wondering  why  peo 
ple  persist  in  vice  that  they  admit  is  killing 
them,  physically  and  mentally.  They  have 
never  discovered  that  the  habit  of  vice  in 
creases  as  the  will  to  resist  decreases. 

Therefore,  in  so  far  as  this  new  some 
thing,  that  has  come  into  my  life  and 
changed  me  from  a  sodden  lump  of  clay 
into  a  conductor  of  electricity,  is  concerned, 
I  propose  to  retain  it  so  long  as  it  will  stay, 

—  and  you  know,  old  man,  I  am  nothing 
if  not  obstinate,  —  all  weak  people  are.     I 
rather   admire   obstinacy   for   this    reason. 
There  are  two  sorts  of  force  in  individuals 

—  one  comes  from  obstinacy  and  one  from 
a  conscious  sense  of  right,  but  for  every-day 
use  give  me  the  former;    it  can  stand  the 
wear  and  tear  of  argument  and  a  flood  of 
light,  but  a  mere  conscious  sense  of  right, 


94  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

from  the  very  intelligence  that  prompted 
its  deductions,  permits  itself  to  waver  and 
doubt. 

My  friendship  with  Mrs.  B.  has  widened 
and  deepened,  and  is  only  bounded  now  by 
the  horizon  of  my  life.  The  intimate 
friendship  of  one  good  woman  is  often  to 
a  man  a  complete  recompense  for  all  the 
bad  women  in  the  world,  and  all  the  dull 
ones,  too,  which  is  saying  much  more. 

With  Mrs.  B.,  it  is  a  case  of  the  mar 
riage  of  innate  goodness  to  intellect,  with 
the  one  child,  Beauty,  as  a  result.  Here 
beauty  is  the  visible  expression  of  herself; 
it  is  logical,  therefore  convincing.  Where 
she  is  the  air  is  charged  with  electricity; 
you  inhale  new  life;  your  dead  ambitions 
rise  from  their  graves  and  are  born  again. 
Your  sympathies  for  others,  atrophied  for 
years,  become  strong  and  lusty  once  more 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  95 

and  seek  a  practical  outlet.  Of  course  this 
atmosphere  seems  good  to  me,  and  I  drink 
it  in  with  long,  deep  breaths,  — 

"  For  when  the  sun  is  hot  as  fire, 
And  sky  one  burning  soft  sapphire, 
One  doesn't  drink  in  little  sips." 

You  see,  I  have  been  touched  by  a  fairy 
wand,  and  changed  from  a  pumpkin  into 
a  man.  However,  do  believe  I  mean  no 
wrong  in  all  this,  —  you  must  believe  it, 
because  you  can,  as  you  have  a  trained  in 
tellect,  which  is  simply  one  that,  in  relig 
ion,  law,  or  politics,  makes  itself  believe 
what  it  likes. 

Yours  impenitently, 

DOUGLAS. 


West  Braintree,  Mass. 

DEAR  DOUGLAS  :- 

I  have  your  extraordinary  letter,  written 
after  an  interval  of  nearly  a  month.  If 
this  is  a  mere  midsummer's  madness,  or 
perhaps,  a  melodrama  arranged  with  your 
well-known  dramatic  ability  for  the  amuse 
ment  of  the  backless,  I  thank  you  for  your 
pains.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  your  last  let 
ter  was  a  serious  composition,  I  am  aghast. 
I  have  never  missed  my  poor  broken  pedes 
trian  machinery  so  much  as  now,  for  I 
should  "  chuck  "  any  other  duty  to  follow 
you,  to  draw  you  from  the  quicksands  into 
which  you  are  light-heartedly  walking. 

May  I  have  a  vision  for  a  moment?    I  see 

96 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  97 

a  woman,  probably  an  unusually  attractive 
woman,  for  you  have  known  too  many  to 
be  thrown  off  your  balance  by  passing  fan 
cies,  tied  presumably  to  a  husband  whom 
she  has  ceased  to  respect,  or  who  interests 
her  no  longer.  You  appear,  —  may  I  be 
frank,  and  say,  —  somewhat  weary  of  your 
own  home  affairs.  You  are  both  more  or 
less  in  a  receptive  condition  for  this  kind 
of  contagious  disease.  Of  her  talk,  I  know 
nothing.  Of  yours,  I  can  guess  that  it  leads 
first  to  amusement,  then  interest,  then  con 
fidence  on  her  part,  and  then  sympathy  on 
yours.  Sympathy,  as  we  all  know,  is  but 
the  ability  to  surround  ourselves  with  an 
atmosphere  in  which  others  find  themselves 
at  their  best.  A  lower  form  of  the  same 
thing  is  the  fish  that  can  colour  the  water 
about  himself.  This  Mrs.  B.  has  coloured 
the  air  about  her  to  suit  your  mental  and 


98  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

moral  complexion.  You  are  happy;  you 
feel  yourself  to  be  understood ;  you  rejoice 
in  an  easy  working  of  your  moral  machin 
ery.  Here  at  last  is  the  medium  in  which, 
or  by  which,  you  are  to  be  another  man, 
to  become  your  best,  to  do  yourself  credit. 
The  same  is  true  of  Mrs.  B.,  as  you  call 
her.  She  no  doubt  swims  delightedly  in 
the  balmy  waters  that  you,  on  your  part, 
have  coloured  for  her.  Matters  progress 
until  two  people  bring  themselves  to  be 
lieve  that  outside  of  this  atmosphere  life 
is  impossible,  or,  at  least,  unbearable.  If 
we  go  too  far  up  in  the  air  in  a  balloon, 
we  cannot  breathe;  if  we  go  down  too  far 
under  water,  there  again  we  cannot  breathe. 
There  is  one  level  for  each  of  us  where  his 
lungs  work  most  freely,  give  most  oxygen 
to  the  blood,  and  where  brain  and  body  are 
at  their  best.  It  is  true  in  exactly  the  same 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  99 

way  of  man  as  a  moral  animal.  There  is  an 
atmosphere  where  the  moral  man  breathes 
most  easily,  most  freely.  It  is  hard  —  I 
will  go  farther  and  say  it  is  the  tragedy  of 
life  —  when  either  a  man  or  a  woman  finds 
himself  confined  for  life,  or  until  death 
us  do  part,  in  an  atmosphere  too  high,  or 
too  low.  You  will  agree  to  all  this,  my  dear 
boy,  but  now  I  fear  that  we  shall  part  com 
pany. 

No  one  person  makes  this  atmosphere. 
The  goddess  can  throw  her  cloud  about 
the  hero,  and  make  him  safe  and  happy 
for  a  time,  but  he  must  become  visible 
again  sometime  and  fight  his  battles  for 
himself  against  or  gods  or  men.  Are  you 
not  deceiving  yourself?  Is  this  woman  not 
deceiving  herself?  You  are  comparatively 
young,  she  is  probably  younger.  Is  this 
passion  of  yours  —  how,  by  the  way,  do 


loo  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

such  things  come  so  lightning  quick?  —  just 
this  mere  atmosphere  in  which  you  are  for 
the  moment  so  happily  at  home,  or  is  it,  do 
you  think,  the  blood,  and  the  bone,  and  the 
heat  of  the  heart  of  the  rest  of  your  life? 
For  mind  you,  the  world  will  come  down 
upon  you  both  with  crushing  force  if  mat 
ters  go  much  farther.  The  world  is  right, 
too,  in  the  main.  The  world  must  insist 
upon  a  certain  dreary  level  of  morality  to 
keep  itself  clean  at  all.  It  can  make  no 
exceptions,  it  cannot  and  must  not  deal  with 
exceptions  and  differences  and  details,  it 
can  only  be  safe  in  dealing  with  human  mor 
als  in  big  blocks.  I  said  the  world  was 
right  —  so.  it  is,  in  the  main,  though  I 
admit,  frankly  enough,  that  there  are  cases 
where  the  individual  has  asserted  himself 
against  the  canons  of  society  and  done 
right.  I  forgave  him,  you  forgave  him,  but 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  101 

the  world  is  much  too  busy  to  go  minutely 
into  each  case.  It  is  an  awful  thing,  there 
fore,  for  any  man  to  set  himself  apart,  to 
make  an  exception  of  himself,  and  to 
trample  upon  the  moral  laws,  and  received 
social  usages  of  his  generation  and  say: 
"  I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul."  Very  few 
men  are  fit  to  be  their  own,  and  their  only 
commander-in-chief.  In  the  case  of  a 
woman,  all  this  applies  to  her  with  re 
doubled  force,  and  with  crushing,  humili 
ating  power  generally.  Mind  you,  my  lad, 
you  may  swing  your  sword,  and  say,  "  I  am 
the  captain  of  my  soul,"  and  throw  off 
the  bonds  and  fetters  of  the  world's  social 
and  moral  life,  and  perhaps  do  it  very  well 
for  yourself  —  but  how  about  her?  You 
have  a  sword,  but  she  only  has  a  parasol. 
You  take  upon  yourself  not  merely  a  double 


102  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

burden,  but  a  veritable  task  of  Sisyphus  to 
roll  your  moral  life  up-hill  again. 

If  you  have  reached  a  point  in  this  affair 
where  your  honour  is  involved,  I  mean  by 
that,  if  this  woman  loves  you,  thinks  her 
happiness  depends  upon  you,  then  how 
sorry  I  am  for  you!  how  my  heart  bleeds 
for  you!  what  a  terrible  problem,  what  a 
dreadful  temptation,  you  have  introduced 
into  your  life! 

Believe  me,  I  am  hurling  no  thunder 
bolts  at  peccadilloes,  I  am  making  no 
mountains  groan  for  the  miscarriage  of  a 
mouse.  I  am  truly  and  deeply  troubled,  as 
one  of  your  oldest  friends,  as  one  of  those 
who  will  insist  upon  understanding  and  for 
giving  you,  —  no  other  friend  is  worth 
while,  —  at  what  I  fear  may  call  out  from 
all  who  care  for  you  the  very  last  shreds 
of  their  loyalty. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  103 

Think  none  the  less  of  me,  if,  as  a  pro 
fessional  moralist,  I  have  written  to  you 
nothing  of  professional  morality--  I  cannot 
stoop  to  discuss  divorce  and  law-breaking. 
These  are  nothing  beside  the  mistake  that 
ruins  a  man's  heart,  and  sends  his  very  soul 
through  the  court  of  bankruptcy.  These 
lower  levels  of  law  are  not  for  men  of 
spirit  and  moral  dignity.  The  policeman 
is  nothing  to  me-- I  am  not  walking  the 
narrow  path  to  escape  his  club.  But  my 
own  ideal  carries  a  weightier  weapon  than 
any  policeman's  club  —  my  self-respect  sits 
on  the  judge's  bench  with  a  power  to  make 
me  miserable  that  no  magistrate  can  wield. 
It  is  so  with  you-- I  am  writing  to  you 
as  a  gentleman:  some  people  might  not 
give  you  that  title  under  the  circumstances; 
I  know  better  than  that  —  I  know  how 
an  impulse,  a  rush  of  passion,  may  involve 


104  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

a  man  in  then  doing  what  under  other  cir 
cumstances  he  might  not  and  would  not  do. 
To  win  a  woman's  love  and  then  tell  her 
it  must  not  be,  is  a  million  times  more 
immoral,  more  cur-like,  than  to  accept 
deposits  of  money  and  then  declare  the  bank 
insolvent.  It  is  true  no  man  should  offer 
love  or  accept  love  when  he  cannot  count 
upon  himself  to  go  to  the  end.  But  once 
it  is  done,  then  a  higher  law  than  that  of 
one's  own  safety  or  comfort  obtains  and 
carries  the  case  out  of  the  earthly  courts 
into  the  heaven  where  a  man's  gods  sit  in 
judgment  upon  him,  Conscience,  Courage, 
Truth.  You  have  made  a  mistake,  a  horri 
ble  mistake,  a  mistake  that  may  wrap  in 
its  folds  not  only  Laocoon,  but  all  his  chil 
dren  ;  so  be  it,  but  I  want  no  friend  of  mine 
to  be  a  coward,  for  that  is  worse  than  a 
mistake,  that  is  damnation.  We  could  only 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  105 

put  you  in  a  moral  asylum  then,  still  pitying 
you,  yes,  but  with  no  respect  left. 

I  may  not  have  made  myself  clear.  I 
may  have  done  you  no  good  by  writing  to 
you  thus  out  of  my  heart,  and  without 
professional  and  almost  without  moral 
prejudices,  —  certainly  with  all  my  social 
prejudices  laid  absolutely  on  one  side  in 
your  favour,  —  but  I  am  rather  bruised  in 
my  sympathies  by  this  affair  of  yours;  I 
am  torn  by  the  necessity  I  see  of  keeping 
myself  now,  of  all  times,  your  friend,  of 
making  myself  an  asylum  whither  you  may 
come  if  worse  things  ensue,  of  keeping  my 
self  unspotted  from  the  world's  mere  harsh 
rule-of-thumb  judgment,  which  is  bound 
to  deal  clumsily  with  you,  and  oh,  so  cruelly 
with  her! 

Our  own  life  here  is  much  the  same  —  I 
ought  to  be  thankful  that  I  am  not  in  a  gar- 


io6  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

ret  with  my  broken  back  —  for  it  is  a  fore 
gone  conclusion  now  that  I  shall  never  be 
well  again  —  instead  of  here,  with  every 
comfort  and  even  every  luxury.  We  have 
our  episodes  though.  The  other  night, 
Bob's  boy,  my  nephew,  came  back  from 
school  for  the  holidays.  With  some  of  his 
schoolmates  the  other  night  he  went  to  the 
play.  Bob  and  Katharine  waited  up  for 
him.  Twelve  o'clock  came  and  no  boy. 
Katharine  got  more  and  more  nervous. 
Finally  Bob  got  a  cab  and  set  sail  in  search 
of  him.  He  rang  the  door-bells  at  friends' 
houses  where  all  the  servants  had  gone  to 
bed;  he  went  to  the  theatre,  the  theatre 
was  closed;  he  was  prepared  to  send  out  a 
general  alarm  from  the  central  police  sta 
tion,  when  he  returned  home  to  find  the 
boy,  who  had  been  taking  his  various 
friends  home  in  a  cab  to  different  parts 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  107 

of  town.  Bob's  language  would  never  have 
been  admitted  even  to  the  Apocrypha.  Of 
course  it  was  a  wet  night  and  Bob  got  wet 
physically  and  morally,  and  swears  he  will 
put  a  ball  and  chain  on  the  boy's  leg.  He 
has  his  trials.  He  quotes  lugubriously  the 
Frenchman's  witty  remark:  Je  nai  qu'un 
domestique  et  pourtant  je  suis  mal  servi, 
over  his  present  phalanx  of  servants  in  the 
two  houses.  I  tell  him  that  all  his  grum 
bling  is  a  mere  affectation,  a  sort  of  Greek 
chorus  to  his  personal  achievements.  He 
found  a  new  game-pie,  at  some  club  or 
other,  not  long  ago,  and  promptly  had  one 
manufactured  for  me  of  the  circumference 
of  a  barrel-head,  and  proposed  my  lunch 
ing  off  it  plus  some  Burgundy.  I  did  my 
best,  and  was  ill  for  forty-eight  hours  after. 
You  know,  or  perhaps  you  don't,  that  I 
have  been  moved  to  the  town  house,  and 


io8  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

rejoice  in  the  va  et  viens  of  this  bustling 
family. 

When  are  you  coming  north?  Why  do 
you  not  stop  over  in  Washington  and  make 
the  acquaintance  of  the  new  administration 
and  tell  me  about  it  all?  In  any  event,  write 
soon  again  and  count  upon  me,  poor  me! 
if  that  be  any  comfort  to  you,  always. 
Yours, 

PERCY  DASHIEL. 


ELEVENTH    LETTER 

Aiken,  South  Carolina. 

DEAR  PERCY:  — 

I  am  not  aware  that  in  my  last  letter  I 
made  any  confession  to  you  that  I  was  "  in 
love  "  with  any  one.  I  remember  referring 
to  a  friendship,  that  was  all.  Fearing,  how 
ever,  you  may  look  upon  this  statement  as 
a  reflection  on  your  own  perspicacity,  I 
make  haste  to  say  now,  that  I  am  "  hope 
lessly  and  madly  in  love."  I  believe  the 
above  is  the  customary  phraseology. 

Your  last  letter  hurts  —  why  don't  you 
temper  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,  for  I 
am  shorn  of  everything  that  appeals  to  you 
and  revelling  in  everything  that  appeals  to 

me.     Never  give  to   a  patient  too  much 
109 


no  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

truth  at  once.  When  one  takes  poison,  if 
one  takes  too  much,  one  throws  it  off. 

Your  theory  that  I  am  acting  as  a  gentle 
man  should  not,  is  to  my  mind  puerile. 
Just  at  present,  and  perhaps  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  am  true  to  myself  and  my 
best  instincts.  Would  you  have  me,  like 
the  slothful  servant,  bury  my  talent  in  the 
earth?  No;  at  present  I  am  out  at  inter 
est,  and  when  I  appear  before  my  Lord  I 
shall  be  rewarded  for  having  increased  in 
the  knowledge  of  all  things  good  in  His 
sight.  Truly  am  I  now  in  the  "  Kingdom 
of  Heaven,"  for  I  am  "  as  a  man  travelling 
in  a  far  country."  Never  was  I  so  proud 
of  myself  as  I  am  now,  my  conscience  is 
like  a  ball  of  crystal. 

One's  first  duty  is  to  be  true  to  oneself, 
the  second  is  to  be  true  to  others. 

Permit  me  also  a  vision.     I  see  a  man, 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  in 

introspective,  selfish,  and  cynical,  with  a 
heart  like  a  hickory-nut,  going  about  do 
ing  his  duties,  according  to  the  laws  conven 
tional,  in  a  perfunctory  way — despised 
of  himself  and  of  the  gods,  a  man  whose 
life  was  so  empty,  that  he  fell  so  low  as  at 
times  to  feel  pity  for  himself.  A  few 
months  later  he  meets  a  woman  who  has 
for  him  the  key  of  all  the  heaven  there  ever 
is  on  earth,  and  lo!  the  man  looks  upward 
not  downward,  looks  outward  not  inward, 
looks  forward  not  back.  The  misery  of  the 
world,  which  was  but  a  distant  humming 
in  his  ears,  becomes  a  mighty  roar;  he  longs 
to  be  up  and  doing  Christ's  work,  for  love 
of  himself  is  changed  to  love  for  others. 
Has  that  man  worsened,  think  you?  Is  the 
bare  tree  of  winter  more  acceptable  in  your 
eyes  than  when  it  puts  forth  its  best,  under  a 
compelling  sun? 


H2  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

Bah!  Here  I  am  apologising  for  the  one 
glory  of  my  life.  A  great  passion  is  its  own 
excuse. 

And  now,  old  boy,  please  don't  argue 
any  more ;  accept  my  present  condition  and 
point  of  view  as  a  fact.  My  sweet  old 
grandmother  used  to  recite  this  verse:  — 

"  When  things  are  done  and  past  recalling, 

'Tis  folly  then  to  fret  or  cry  ; 
Prop  up  a  rotten  house  when  falling, 
But  when  it's  down  e'en  let  it  lie." 

Learn  this  by  heart. 

Dear  Lord!  I  am  so  happy,  and  what  a 
queer  sensation  happiness  is.  I  never  even 
had  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  it  before, 
but  now  we  are  on  intimate  terms.  Of 
course  there  are  moments  when  hell  inter 
venes,  but  that  is  \vhen  I  don't  expect  to  see 
her  for  twenty-four  hours.  As  you  see,  I 
am  as  Carlyle  described  Monckton  Milnes, 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  113 

the  "  President  of  the  Heaven-and-Hell 
Amalgamation  Company."  Whether  you 
deserve  it  or  not,  I  propose  to  continue 
writing  about  her  to  you. 

Doubtless  you  would  like  me  to  retrace 
my  steps  —  can  I  honestly  do  so?  Let  me 
try  to  reproduce  for  you  the  scene  that  took 
place  between  us  yesterday,  then  you  can 
answer  the  question  for  yourself. 

We  had  ridden  some  miles  from  the 
house  and  were  deep  in  the  cathedral-like 
woods;  I  suggested  we  should  dismount 
and  tie  our  horses  to  a  tree,  and  take  a  stroll, 
which  we  did. 

"  How  I  love  flowers,"  she  was  saying. 
"  I  know  they  are  endowed  with  life  and 
have  a  language  of  their  own.  Don't  you 
remember  how  Tennyson  in  '  Maud  '  makes 
them  talk,  '  and  the  lily  whispers  I  wait,  I 
wait.'  By  the  bye,  did  you  ever  read  a 


U4  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

little  story  about  some  flowers  in  a  dying 
girl's  room  nursing  her  back  to  life?  They 
took  turns  in  watching,  wishing,  and  pray 
ing.  One  would  wake  when  the  other 
folded  its  leaves  and  slept.  '  She  is  one  of 
us,'  they  cried.  '  She  must  be  saved,'  and 
so  these  little  flowers  gave  up  their  lives 
for  hers." 

"  It's  a  very  pretty  idea,"  I  said,  "  but  I 
should  hate  to  depend  upon  a  flower  to  give 
me  my  medicine  regularly,  to  shake  my 
pillows,  or  run  for  the  doctor.  If  I  am  ill, 
please  see  that  I  have  a  trained  nurse;  she 
may  be  as  pretty  as  the  fairest  flower  if 
you  like;  but  I  should  prefer  to  trust  my 
worthless  life  to  her,  than  to  a  well-wishing 
lily  of  the  valley." 

At  first,  her  eyelids  drooped  with  disap 
pointment;  then,  raising  them,  she  looked 
up  in  my  face,  saying: 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  115 

"For  shame!  Mr.  Dayton,  for  shame! 
Have  you  no  poetic  feeling?  " 

"  Not  where  illness  is  concerned,"  I  an 
swered.  "  An  illness  from  which  you  re 
cover  is  simply  a  dip  into  the  Valley  of 
Death.  You  come  out  on  top  of  the  far 
mountain,  once,  twice,  perhaps;  then  you 
take  another  dip  and  you  remain  in  the 
valley.  There  is  nothing  poetical  about 
death.  It  is  horribly  practical.  To  me 
it  is  the  end." 

"  And  to  me,"  she  whispered,  "  the  be 
ginning." 

"  But  come,"  I  continued,  "  this  conver 
sation  is  out  of  place  on  such  a  morning. 
Let's  talk  of  love  and  life."  Then  in  a 
lower  voice,  I  added:  "  Shall  we  talk  of 
love?" 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  "  what  is  it?  " 

The  sudden  frankness  of  this  question, 


u6  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

and  its  unexpectedness  struck  me  as  hu 
mourous  and  changed  my  mood  like  a  flash. 

"  Love,"  I  laughingly  replied,  "  is  a  tidal 
wave  of  feeling  which  drowns  the  intelli 
gence  of  a  man  and  woman." 

She  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment,  and 
then  asked: 

"  Is  that  all  you  believe  it  to  be?  " 

"  No,  not  all.  I  believe  a  man's  capacity 
to  love  a  good  woman  is  generally  the  only 
good  thing  about  him.  I  believe  a  man's 
love  for  a  woman  takes  its  colouring  from 
the  woman  he  loves  and  that  a  man's  love 
for  you  would  be  a  great  white  shaft  of  daz 
zling  light." 

Her  eyes  became  sapphire  seas  and  surely 
the  blood  in  her  veins  ran  warmer.  But  be 
fore  she  spoke  again,  her  old  tranquillity 
came  back,  and  she  asked: 

"  Do  you  believe  to  love  is  a  duty?  " 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  117 

Again  I  felt  a  shock;  this  time  I  felt  more 
irritated  than  amused. 

So  I  answered :  "  Love  is  the  antithesis 
of  duty;  it  is  a  wild  caprice;  the  very  es 
sence  of  its  being  is  independence  of  will. 
Duty  is  the  reverse.  Any  love  which  has 
a  large  percentage  of  duty  in  it  has  a  large 
percentage  of  dead  matter  that  checks  its 
growth.  I  fear  that  God  made  you  to  be 
loved  rather  than  to  love.  Our  earthly 
affections  are  made  of  sterner  stuff  than 
you  are  capable  of." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  are  right  or 
wrong,"  she  said,  "  but  I  do  know  that  there 
are  moments  when  my  whole  character 
seems  waiting  to  change,  in  answer  to  a 
few  words  spoken  by  some  one ;  I  know  not 
by  whom." 

"  Then,  I  shall  be  your  Knight  of  the 
Holy  Grail  and  search  the  wide  world  over 


n8  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

to  find  the  words  that  shall  prove  an  open- 
sesame  to  your  heart." 

"  God's  own  music,"  I  heard  her  mur 
mur. 

She  looked  like  a  flower  unfolding  itself 
for  the  first  time  to  drink  in  the  warmth  of 
the  sun.  She  looked  like  a  lily  changing  to 
a  rose.  Shyly  she  raised  her  eyes  to  mine 
and  said: 

"  Was  the  Knight  of  the  Holy  Grail  gone 
long?  If  so,  don't  go;  perhaps  you  might 
find  the  right  words  here." 

Then  the  soft  singing  of  the  pines  ceased, 
the  checkered  spots  of  sunlight  on  the  path 
stopped  dancing,  and  nature  stood  still  and 
quiet,  and  watched  with  love  and  admira 
tion  the  unfolding  of  this  gentle  heart.  It 
knew  that  of  all  the  wondrous  changes  it 
wrought  in  the  world,  as  from  seed  to  tree, 
from  darkness  to  light,  there  was  nothing 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  119 

so  radiantly  beautiful  as  the  dawn  of  love 
in  a  pure  woman's  heart. 

I  stopped  and  faced  her,  took  her  fragile 
white  hand  in  mine,  and  in  a  voice  husky 
with  emotion,  said:  "  I  know  three  words 
I  might  say.  They  may  be  the  right  ones, 
but  should  they  be  the  wrong,  my  days 
would  be  all  nights,  my  life  all  gray,  my 
hopes  all  dead." 

Her  head  bent  forward,  but  from  be 
tween  her  lips  I  heard  the  words:  — 

"  Knights  were  always  courageous,  were 
they  not?  " 

Then  with  no  uncertain  voice,  but  loudly 
and  proudly  I  cried,  "  I  love  you! " 

And  a  soft  echo  came  back,  "  And  I  you." 

Once  again  the  pines  sang,  the  sunlight 
danced,  and  all  nature  bounded  ahead  for 
joy.  To  me  the  world  seemed  suddenly  full 
of  vibrant  music  that  shook  all  my  senses 


120  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

into  life  as  they  had  never  known  life  be 
fore,  and  centred  them  on  one  being.  To 
me  the  universe  had  reduced  itself  to  one 
woman.  The  right  words  had  been  spoken, 
the  open-sesame  found. 

When  I  leaned  forward  and  kissed  her, 
Peace  took  Love  by  the  hand  and  they 
passed  together  into  my  heart  and  left  no 
room  for  fear. 

Answer  me  the  question,  —  shall  I  re 
trace  my  steps? 

Possibly  you  wonder  how  I  can  write 
you  so  fully  about  anything  so  personal,  but 
remember,  to  you,  she  will  always  be  a 
creature  of  my  imagination,  you  will  never 
know  her,  never  even  see  her,  so  I  feel 
guilty  of  no  breach  of  confidence;  besides, 
when  burdens  become  too  heavy  they  must 
be  shared,  even  the  burden  of  joy.  My 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  121 

happiness  is  too  great  for  me  to  bear  alone. 
She  is  the  glint  of  light  at  the  end  of  my 
mental  vista.  Whatever  line  of  thought 
I  look  down  I  see  her  smiling,  intelligent 
face  at  the  end,  with  a  knowing  look,  which 
seems  to  say:  "  Oh,  why  waste  words!  I 
know  what  you  would  say  before  you 
speak,"  and  I,  soul-parched  man  that  I  am, 
revel  in  the  fact  that  at  last  I  am  anticipated 
in  my  thoughts. 

Man,  —  I  worship  her;  if  I  had  as  many 
sides  as  you  can  make  combinations  of 
figures  she  would  appeal  to  them  all.  I 
would  rather  kiss  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  her 
very  nails,  than  the  responsive  lips  of  a 
houri.  To-day,  what  took  place  between 
us,  was  to  me  a  religious  service.  In  the 
reed-like  top  of  a  giant  pine  beneath  which 
we  stood,  the  wind  was  busy  singing  in  a 


122  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

monotone;  —  it  was   the   Muezzin   of   the 
West  calling  the  forest  to  prayer. 

Again  I   ask  you  —  shall  I   retrace  my 
steps? 

Yours, 
DOUGLAS. 


TWELFTH    LETTER 

Aiken,  South   Carolina. 

DEAR  PERCY:  — 

I  am  writing  you  again  without  waiting 
for  an  answer  from  you  as  I  have  an  indi 
gestion  of  news.  I  have  news  to  shed  and 
am  prepared  to  shed  it  now.  Listen.  We 
have  here  what  we  call  "  dove  drives." 
Some  few  miles  out  of  Aiken  a  big  field  is 
baited  with  the  favourite  food  of  the  amor 
ous  dove.  When  the  news  is  communicated 
to  the  scattered  birds  by  the  unselfish  dis 
coverer  they  concentre  in  great  numbers. 
The  following  day  your  particular  dove 
drives  you  out  there,  and  many  others  do 

the  same,  perhaps  twenty  or  thirty  couples. 
123 


124  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

The  field  is  surrounded,  and  the  birds, 
frightened  from  their  feast,  begin  to  fly 
wildly  at  the  sound  of  the  first  gun.  Then 
if  you  have  ever  been  in  a  battle,  the  mem 
ory  seems  a  silence.  Such  a  bing-whanging 
you  never  heard.  Your  particular  dove  be 
comes  excited  and  cries: 

"  Oh,  let  me  try!  I  must  shoot  one." 
You  hand  her  your  gun  ready  loaded  and 
cocked,  carefully  placing  the  stock  in  her 
hand;  she  is  suddenly  seized  by  fear,  and 
says: 

"  I  can't,  I  don't  dare,  here  comes  one, 
take  it,  —  quick!  "  and  accurately  pointing 
the  muzzle  at  your  abdomen  returns  you 
the  weapon,  provided  you  have  nerve 
enough  to  accept  it  and  are  not  abdomen- 
less  at  the  time.  After  killing  anywhere 
from  four  to  six  hundred  of  these  little  min 
nows  of  the  air,  you  sit  down  to  a  luncheon 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  125 

that  would  try  the  powers  of  a  Hans 
Christian  Andersen  ogre. 

Yesterday  Mrs.  B.  drove  me  out,  and 
Mr.  B.,  who  is  persona  non  grata,  notwith 
standing  his  good  looks,  with  every  woman 
here,  drove  out  alone.  Coming  back,  our 
buggy  broke  down,  but  as  we  were  nearly 
home  we  decided  to  walk  the  rest  of  the 
way.  Mr.  B.  was  following  close  behind, 
so  when  we  got  out,  he  did  also,  and  join 
ing  us,  said  he  too  would  walk. 

He  made  some  sneering  remark  about 
his  wife's  lack  of  pluck  so  far  as  a  gun  was 
concerned  as  compared  with  some  of  the 
other  women  present  that  day.  I  saw  her 
face  flush;  she  seemed  to  take  it  to  heart. 
He  is  a  man  of  few  pleasures,  but,  like  many 
another  husband,  finds  his  principal  enjoy 
ment  in  making  his  wife  appear  at  her 
worst,  not  her  best.  She  was  silent  for  a 


126  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

moment,  and  then  asked  him,  with  her  face 
slightly  paled: 

"  Do  you  think  women  without  pluck?  " 

"Oh!"  he  answered,  laughingly,  "they 
sometimes  have  a  seeming  pluck,  born  of 
ignorance  and  stupidity." 

Then  she  turned  on  him  with  a  scorn  that 
must  have  been  latent  for  many  a  day,  and 
said: 

"  I'll  do  anything  you  dare  to  do,  — 
more,  I'll  do  anything  you  dare  me  to  do." 

Now  it  so  happens  that  Aiken  is  divided 
in  half  by  a  gully  some  fifty  feet  wide  and 
fifty  deep,  through  which  the  railroad  runs; 
it  is  an  ugly  cut  with  precipitous  sides. 
We  reached  this  place  as  her  words  were 
spoken.  The  wooden  bridge  that  had 
spanned  it  the  day  before  was  now  in  the 
form  of  ashes  on  the  track  below.  The 
night  previous  a  drunken  negro  had  stum- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  127 

bled  with  a  lamp,  and  the  bridge  had 
ceased  to  be,  all  except  one  long  wooden 
girder  about  four  inches  wide  stretching  its 
charred  end  out  about  half  over  the  chasm. 
The  moment  B.  caught  sight  of  it  he  cried: 

"  Good!  I  dare  you  to  walk  out  to  the 
end  of  that  and  back." 

I  swung  around  and  faced  him. 

"You  can't  mean  it!"  I  hoarsely  ex 
claimed,  my  voice  raucous  in  fright,  "  for 
bid  her  to,  for  God's  sake." 

With  an  intensely  amused  look  in  his 
face  he  raised  his  forefinger  to  his  lips 
warningly,  and  pointed  with  his  other  hand 
over  my  shoulder.  I  turned  —  she  was 
well  out  over  the  edge,  her  arms  out 
stretched  and  carrying  herself  with  the 
grace  and  assured  strength  of  a  panther. 

My  hands  and  feet  became  ice,  there 
seemed  to  be  in  me  a  cessation  of  all  life. 


128  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

The  smile  never  left  his  face.  He  was 
pleased,  she  was  affording  him  a  new  sen 
sation.  I  knew  that  if  I  made  any  attempt 
to  go  to  her  aid  it  might  cause  her  to  lose 
her  balance,  but  while  her  back  was  turned 
I  tiptoed  up  noiselessly  to  the  very  edge 
where  the  girder  went  into  the  earth.  I 
now  know  what  eternity  means.  Slowly, 
but  with  no  uncertain  step,  she  reached  the 
end,  then,  with  a  perceptible  tremble,  she 
changed  the  position  of  both  feet  until  they 
rested  transversely  to  the  beam,  the  most 
difficult  way  to  stand  and  retain  one's  bal 
ance.  At  last  she  faced  us  again  and  for 
one  moment  she  raised  her  eyes  and  gazed 
into  mine  with  oh,  such  a  pathetic  look,  — 
a  look  as  of  one  who  was  shaking  hands 
with  death  and  knew  not  whether  her  hand 
was  to  be  released  or  not.  There  I  stood 
with  arms  outstretched  and  a  smile,  the 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  129 

sort  of  smile  a  man  might  wear  for  a  little 
while  in  the  torture-chamber.  However, 
now  that  she  had  made  the  turn  and  was 
slowly  returning,  I  felt  a  creeping  sensa 
tion  of  hope,  but  when  hope  is  greatest,  sus 
pense  is  hardest  to  bear.  By  leaning 
forward  I  could  almost  touch  her  hands. 
I  did  not  dare  put  my  weight  on  the  girder, 
it  seemed  so  rotten.  Suddenly  my  heart 
sank.  I  heard  the  increasing  rumble  of  an 
approaching  train.  I  knew  that  any  object 
coming  toward  her,  going  beneath,  and 
passing  away  she  would  intuitively  follow, 
though  ever  so  slightly,  with  her  eyes, 
which  would  mean  death. 

When  she,  too,  heard  and  realised,  she 
stopped,  and  a  gray  pallor  overspread  her 
face.  Absolutely  motionless  she  stood  for 
one  short  moment,  then  with  her  presence 
of  mind  and  her  confidence  gone,  she  gave 


130  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

one  quick  glance  at  the  train  as  it  thundered 
beneath  her,  and  whirling,  fell  —  into  my 
extended  arms.  Her  weight  brought  me 
with  a  crash  to  the  ground,  and  there  she 
dangled  over  the  edge,  dependent  upon  the 
failing  strength  of  a  pair  of  human  arms. 
I  caught  her  closer  to  me  so  I  could  encir 
cle  her  waist  with  one  arm,  released  my  left 
and  threw  it  over  the  girder,  also  resting 
my  left  shoulder  along  its  edge.  Then  for 
the  first  time  I  seemed  to  recollect  and 
hoarsely  cried :  "  Aren't  you  going  to  help? 
For  God's  sake,  man,  be  quick!"  No  an 
swer.  I  thought  my  right  arm  would  go 
by  the  roots.  Just  then  I  heard  a  cracking 
sound  beneath  my  left  shoulder,  the  girder 
was  breaking  off  close  to  the  edge.  I  saw 
its  outer  end  slowly  pointing  downward. 
Again  I  called,  "  In  the  name  of  God,  help 
us."  Only  silence.  I  could  not  turn  my 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  131 

head  to  see,  but  I  knew  now  he  had  gone, 
for  no  man  made  in  the  image  of  God  could 
have  stood  there  and  made  no  effort. 
Slowly  Mrs.  B's  head  turned  for  the  first 
time,  and  face  to  face  with  one  another  and 
death,  we  looked  our  love  into  one  another's 
eyes.  The  only  words  were  spoken  by 
me:  — 

"  Have  courage,  you  sha'n't  go  alone,  I 
am  coming  too." 

With  a  final  snapping  the  beam  parted, 
I  watched  its  fall  till  it  crashed  on  the 
tracks  below.  Then  I  felt  myself  slipping 
farther  and  farther  over  the  edge.  Sud 
denly  I  was  grasped  by  the  ankles  and  with 
a  mighty  jerk  I  was  pulled  back.  The  next 
moment — B.  was  by  my  side;  together 
we  raised  Mrs.  B.,  who  had  fainted,  and  he 
placed  her  in  a  safe  position  behind  me, 
giving  me  a  hand;  I  rose,  and  there  we 


132  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

stood  looking  at  one  another.  His  eyes 
were  dancing  with  delight  and  amusement. 

"Ye  gods!"  he  cried.  "/  have  had  a 
sensation.  I  never  watched  anything  so  in 
teresting  in  my  life.  You  know,  I  could 
not  help  smiling  at  you;  you  were  indeed 
prostrating  yourself  before  Death  in  a  very 
humble  way.  To  have  gone  into  his  pres 
ence  on  your  belly,  must  surely  have 
pleased  his  vanity." 

Had  he  meant,  even  for  a  moment,  to  let 
us  die?  I  wondered  then  and  I  wonder 
now.  Had  God  and  the  Devil  had  a  battle 
for  the  possession  of  this  man  and  had  God 
won?  I  wondered  then  and  I  wonder  now. 

That  evening  I  dined  alone  at  the  club. 
I  was  in  no  mood  to  listen  to  twaddle  nor  to 
talk  it.  About  nine  I  wandered  down  to 
B.'s  cottage  to  inquire  how  my  lady  fared. 

In  the  year's  necklace  of  nights,  this  one 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  133 

was  its  most  perfect  gem.  The  full  moon, 
verily  the  eye  of  heaven,  looked  intermit 
tently  down  upon  the  earth  between  waves 
of  foamy  clouds  that  beat  upon  the  shore 
of  nowhere.  The  air  was  like  a  cool  band 
age  on  a  fevered  brow,  and  the  odour  of  the 
pines  was  as  incense  —  to  me,  a  worshipper. 
"  There  is  but  one  temple  in  the  universe 
and  that  is  the  body  of  man."  So  you  see 
at  present  I  am  my  own  place  of  worship. 
The  future  has  no  interest  for  me.  We  all 
of  us  in  this  world  walk  forward  in  "  com 
pany  front "  with  our  noses  pressed  against 
the  veil  of  the  future  —  not  one  can  with 
draw  his  nose  the  millionth  of  a  second, 
nor  one  advance  his  the  millionth  of  an 
inch;  only  as  time  recedes  can  we  step 
forward.  I  am  too  wise  to  wish  the  curtain 
raised,  or  rendered  transparent,  and  too 
contented  to  make  futile  guesses. 


134  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

Hitherto  I  have  been  a  man  without  any 
special  interest,  and  a  man  without  an  in 
terest  in  life  is  like  a  picture  without  a  back 
ground.  In  my  case  this  is  now  remedied. 

I  found  her  seated  on  the  porch  —  the 
moon  was  evidently  as  much  in  love  with 
her  as  I,  but  pluckier,  for  it  left  no  part  of 
her  untouched.  She  rose  to  greet  me,  and 
said: 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,  as  I  wish  to 
tell  you  before  you  even  ask,  that  I  give  my 
self  to  you,  that  I  am  completely  and 
wholly  yours,  that  that  man  whom  I  am  still 
compelled  to  call  my  husband  shall  never 
be  more  to  me  than  an  ugly  memory." 

I  raised  her  hand  to  my  lips  and  said, 
"  This  betokens  submission,"  then  bending 
down  I  kissed  her  reverently  on  the  fore 
head,  "  and  this  in  behalf  of  all  there  is  good 
in  me  —  a  benediction."  On  her  eyes  next 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  135 

I  placed  the  kiss  of  peace,  next  to  love, 
God's  greatest  gift.  On  either  cheek  one 
of  friendship,  and  whispered,  "  Without 
friendship  love  is  without  endurance." 
Then  on  her  lips  a  kiss,  but  I  spoke  not  — 
the  kiss  spake  for  itself. 

Good  night,  old  man,  the  sun  is  peeping 
over  the  rim  of  the  earth  as  I  write,  and  I 
wish  to  sleep,  that  I  may  dream. 

Yours, 
DOUGLAS. 


THIRTEENTH    LETTER 

Shady    Side    of    Commonwealth    Avenue, 
Boston,  Mass. 

DEAR  DOUGLAS:  — 

Bob,  Katharine,  and  Cynthia  are  just  re 
turned  from  Boston's  Babylon,  New  York. 
"  Coming  out "  seems  to  me  a  curious  proc 
ess.  It  appears  to  be  a  sort  of  formal  in 
troduction  to  idleness  —  gilded  idleness. 
You  meet  everybody  who  isn't  doing  any 
thing.  It  is  a  menace  to  health  and  an 
invitation  to  f rivolise  your  soul  —  you 
champagne  and  terrapin  yourself  when 
you  ought  to  be  asleep,  and  sleep  when  you 
ought  to  be  about  your  Father's  business. 

You  upset  all  the  notions  of  your  Puritan 
136 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  137 

ancestors,  who  claimed  with  Pericles  that, 
"  she  is  the  best  woman  who  is  least  heard 
of,  either  for  good,  or  for  evil."  You 
deify  the  unimportant,  and  trivialise  the 
serious  things  of  life.  You  take  an  inno 
cent  young  girl  whom  you  have  protected 
from  the  tawny  press,  and  from  all  knowl 
edge  of  evil,  in  whose  presence  you  have 
ever  remembered,  Maxima  debetur  puellis 
reverentia,  whom  you  have  taught  the 
prayers  of  the  ages  and  the  piety  of  the 
Gospels,  and  you  present  her  with  the 
world's  decalogue  as  follows:  — 

"  Thou  shalt  have  one  God  only  ;   who 
Would  be  at  the  expense  of  two  ? 
No  graven  images  may  be 
Worshipped,  except  the  currency  : 
Swear  not  at  all  ;  for,  for  thy  curse, 
Thine  enemy  is  none  the  worse: 
At  church  on  Sunday  to  attend 
Will  serve  to  keep  the  world  thy  friend  : 
Honour  thy  parents ;  that  is,  all 
From  whom  advancement  may  befall  : 


138  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

Thou  shalt  not  kill  ;  but  need'st  not  strive 
Officiously  to  keep  alive: 
Do  not  adultery  commit  ; 
Advantage  rarely  comes  of  it  : 
Thou  shalt  not  steal ;  an  empty  feat, 
When  it's  so  lucrative  to  cheat  : 
Bear  not  false  witness  ;  let  the  lie 
Have  time  on  its  own  wings  to  fly : 
Thou  shalt  not  covet,  but  tradition 
Approves  all  forms  of  competition." 

It  is  an  absurd  world,  is  it  not?  But  thank 
Heaven  there  is  one  wise  man  left  in  it: 
la  sage ss e  c'est  moif 

I  am  rejoiced  to  have  them  back.  They 
are  all  three  full  of  their  experiences.  Cyn 
thia  has  sat  in  our  social  House  of  Lords, 
surrounded  by  tiaraed  celebrities,  and  finds 
that  they  do  not  bite,  that  they  do  not  eat 
ambrosia  and  drink  nectar  all  the  time,  and 
that  their  life  is  not  all  one  long  lolling 
upon  the  slopes  of  Olympus.  That's  good 
for  her  imagination,  at  any  rate.  The  un 
known  is  always  a  billion  times  too  big. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  139 

And  in  the  case  of  the  young,  to  satisfy 
the  demands  of  the  imagination  is  often 
to  draw  the  sting  of  evil. 

As  for  old  Bob,  he  has  had  a  "  bully 
time."  He  finds  the  young  fellows  of  this 
generation  bigger  and  better  than  his  own 
contemporaries — there's  optimism  for  you  I 
He  tells  of  a  dinner  of  twenty  he  gave  for 
Cynthia,  where,  out  of  the  nine  young  men 
present,  seven  drank  nothing,  and  five  did 
not  smoke.  He  is  loud  in  his  praises  of  the 
"  flannelled  fools  at  the  wicket,  and  the 
muddied  oafs  at  the  goals."  Bob's  no  fool 
on  the  subject  of  horses,  and  dogs,  and 
young  men,  and  no  doubt  he  is  right.  He 
was  greatly  surprised  to  find  that  many  of 
his  own  generation  had  grown  old.  He 
found  a  deplorable  lack  of  hair,  a  curious 
prominence  of  abdomen,  a  shortness  of 
breath,  an  overnicetv  about  eating  and 


140  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

drinking,  and  a  tendency  to  cantankerous 
criticism  of  one's  neighbours.  He  was 
thoroughly  taken  aback  by  the  growth  of 
New  York,  by  the  evidences  of  prosperity, 
by  the  shoals  of  people  who  now  live  upon 
a  scale  of  expenditure  for  houses,  horses, 
and  servants  unknown,  except  to  a  limited 
number,  even  twenty  years  ago.  He  tells 
me  that,  in  1798,  New  York  had  less  than 
forty  thousand  inhabitants.  Now  there  are 
three  millions  and  a  half.  Bob  rubs  his 
hands  over  this,  as  though  it  were  in  some 
sort  his  doing,  as  though  he  were  in  some 
way  bigger,  too.  Nice  fellow,  Bob!  A 
fine,  quinine-like  stimulant  in  a  weary 
world.  He  hated  to  go  to  New  York,  and 
now,  if  you  please,  he  thinks  Cynthia  ought 
to  go  again.  She  ought  not  to  miss  this, 
that,  and  the  other  function,  he  says.  What 
a  great  thing:  it  is  to  be  at  home  in  the 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  141 

world!  Drop  Bob  anywhere,  and  he  has  a 
"  bully  time."  He  converts  me  at  times, 
and  I  wonder  if  Bob  isn't  made  after  the 
pattern  in  the  Mount,  after  all,  and  the  rest 
of  us  just  fretful  mistakes  of  the  Almighty. 
He  would  not  make  a  Napoleon,  but  he 
would  have  made  a  splendid  Ney.  And  I 
am  not  sure  that  genius  does  not  always  do 
harm  in  the  world,  even  when  it  is  success 
ful.  Do  you  recall  a  really  first-rate  genius 
who  was  thoroughly  good  and  thoroughly 
sane? 

They  have  been  trying  to  get  a  parson 
for  my  old  parish,  and  have  about  made 
up  their  minds  to  ask  a  certain  young  man. 
When  I  told  Bob  about  it,  he  listened  with 
his  usual  cheerfulness,  and  then  —  what  do 
you  suppose? — asked  if  I  thought  he  would 
make  a  good  secretary  for  the  golf  club. 
That  has  kept  me  in  good  spirits  for  two 


142  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

days.  I  suggested  to  Bob  that  the  parish 
clerk  write  and  inform  him  that  he  could 
not  use  the  Haskell  ball  in  our  parish.  He 
didn't  seem  to  think  that  much  of  a  joke. 
I  believe  it  was  Buckle,  he  of  the  "  History 
of  Civilisation,"  who  claimed  that  men  and 
women  were  divided  into  three  classes  men 
tally.  The  first  and  lowest  class  talk  of 
persons;  the  second  talk  about  things;  the 
third  and  highest  about  ideas.  Now  Bob 
is  devoted  to  the  discussion  of  persons  and 
things,  but,  by  any  standards  of  life  that 
I  thread  the  maze  by,  I  cannot  rate  him  as 
inferior.  He  is  trustworthy,  brave,  and 
truthful,  but  so  far  as  my  rather  intimate 
brother-in-lawerly  acquaintance  with  him 
goes,  he  has  never  discussed  an  idea  in  his 
life.  Just  between  you  and  me,  Buckle  be 
blowed!  It  is  the  zest  for  life  that  counts. 
Yesterday  did  not  suffice;  to-day  is  not 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  143 

enough.  Bob  is  forever  trying  to  steal  to 
morrow  from  God.  What  handsomer  com 
pliment  could  he  pay  his  Creator! 

How  easy  it  is  to  take  up  the  defence 
of  those  we  love!  The  farther  I  drift  away 
from  even  the  possibility  of  doing  things, 
the  more  I  become  a  mere  browser,  the 
more,  I  suppose,  I  like  the  hewers  of  wood, 
the  drawers  of  water,  and  those  who  go 
down  to  the  sea  in  ships.  The  clank  of 
a  spur,  the  creak  of  a  sail,  the  ring  of  a 
sword,  fascinates  me.  Having  successfully 
disconnected  my  head  from  my  legs,  I  am 
tempted  to  doubt  whether  the  psalmist  was 
altogether  right  in  warning  us  against  "  the 
legs  of  a  horse." 

I  was  scribbling  along  in  this  empty  fash 
ion  when  your  two  letters  arrived,  for 
warded  from  West  Braintree.  At  what  an 
awful  rate  you  are  living,  my  dear  Douglas, 


144  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

my  poor  Douglas.  How  overwhelming 
must  be  your  present  predicament  —  or, 
may  I  call  it,  your  present  infatuation  — 
that  permits  you,  that  prompts  you,  to  write 
to  me  of  it  all.  I  sometimes  feel  that  I  must 
be  dreaming,  or  that  you  must  be  writing 
a  story  for  my  amusement.  I  seem  to  have 
lost  my  moral  equilibrium  in  cherishing 
you  still  among  my  friends.  And  yet  I 
cannot  thrust  you,  and  even  these  present 
interests  of  yours,  away  from  me.  What 
a  tragedy  the  accident  must  have  been! 
What  a  beast  is  this  man,  the  husband  of 
your  friend!  I  have  never  known  such  a 
man.  Is  it  not  possible  that  you  darken 
the  picture?  It  is  hard  for  me  to  imagine 
such  sensuous  cruelty.  Are  you  sure  you 
are  right  in  describing  a  man,  a  live  man, 
as  actually  tempting  his  own  wife  into  seri 
ous  physical  danger?  Throttling  were  too 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  145 

good  for  him!  Ah,  how  complicated  life 
is,  after  all!  To  be  good  seems  the  plain 
est  of  propositions,  and  yet  here  am  I  puz 
zling  over  my  own  near  friend.  My  gorge 
rises  at  the  scene  you  must  have  witnessed, 
and  yet  —  yes,  by  God,  sir,  I  believe  I 
should  have  kissed  her  myself!  But  this 
is  no  solution  of  the  problem,  either  for  you 
or  for  me.  That  miserable  weakness  of 
mine  for  the  man  who  does  things  is,  I  fear, 
playing  me  false.  It  is  clear  enough  to  me, 
theoretically,  that  you  have  no  right  to  that 
woman,  that  she  has  no  right  to  you.  Is 
there  no  way  out,  even  now,  for  one  or  the 
other  of  you,  or  for  both?  Could  it  not  all 
be  as  though  it  had  never  been?  I  would 
to  God  that  I  were  wise  enough,  strong 
enough,  to  lead  you  both  back  to  where  you 
were  before.  How  little  I  dreamed,  in 


146  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

writing  my  first  letter  to  you,  that  I  should 
be  introduced  into  life  again,  and  such  hot 
life,  —  life  that  is  so  far  removed  from  this 
quiet  room,  from  this  peaceful  monotony  of 
the  cripple,  who,  sheltered  himself,  mute 
and  powerless  himself,  has  suddenly  re 
vealed  to  him,  as  on  a  distant  stage,  a  trag 
edy,  in  which  those  he  loves  play  the  chief 
parts.  At  least  this  much  I  know:  I  may 
not  run  away.  It  can  do  no  harm  to  tell 
me,  though  I  be  too  weak  to  be  strong  for 
you  —  and  for  her.  I  am  very  tired  to 
night.  Perhaps  these  last  two  letters  have 
played  upon  my  nerves,  as  they  would  not 
upon  those  of  a  stronger  man.  I  am  read 
ing  myself  to  sleep.  May  I  read  you  the 
poem? 

"  Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 

Black  as  the  Pit  from  pole  to  pole, 
I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  147 

"  In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 

I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud, 
Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

"Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 

Looms  but  the  horror  of  the  shade, 
And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds,  and  shall  find  me,  unafraid. 

"  It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 
I  am  the  master  of  my  fate  : 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul." 

Good  night,  my  dear  Douglas!    May  I 
see  clearer  to-morrow! 

PERCY  DASHIEL. 


FOURTEENTH     LETTER 

Aiken,  South  Carolina. 

DEAR  PERCY:  — 

I  am  constrained  to  speak  to  you  about 
one  subject  before  I  begin  my  letter  about 
myself  (for  my  letters  are  always  that). 

You  must  think  it  strange  that  I  never 
mention  your  condition,  your  suffering,  and 
your  patience.  I  have  decided  to  do  so, 
once  for  all,  because  I  think  between  men 
too  much  is  taken  for  granted,  and  too  little 
said.  The  supposition  that  a  man  can  get 
along  just  as  well  without  sympathy  is  an 
erroneous  one.  Silent  sympathy  (always 
without  pity)  is  a  great  help  to  a  man  sore 
at  heart.  By  silent  sympathy,  I  mean  a 

hand  on  the  shoulder,  which  wires:    "I 

148 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  149 

know,  feel,  and  understand."  No  man  could 
do  better;  you  are  facing  your  "  fearful 
odds "  as  a  man  should,  and  how  could  one 
do  better?  —  not  die  better,  for  I  know,  as 
few  can,  that  this  pitiful  earth  cannot  spare 
you  until  your  three  score  and  ten  have 
passed.  Of  later  years,  in  this  country,  it 
is  fashionable  to  be  "  casual "  in  your  man 
ners,  morals,  and  friendships.  I  believe  it 
is  wiser  to  put  yourself  on  record  once,  as 
I  do  now,  as  having  the  keenest  admiration 
for  your  pluck,  your  adaptability,  your 
faith,  and  your  capacity  to  encourage  your 
self.  I  had  a  friend  once,  an  "  emotional " 
of  the  Latin  race,  who,  for  the  lack  at  the 
critical  moment  of  a  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  a  whisper,  "  I  know  and  care,"  com 
mitted  suicide.  I  now  place  mine  on  yours. 
God  bless  you  —  He  has,  for  He  has  given 
you  a  grip  on  something  more  important 


150  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

than  life  —  a  grip  on  yourself.  I  had  an 
other  friend  who  was  saved  by  an  uncon 
sciously  given  lesson.  He  was  at  his  wits' 
end,  his  troubles  seemed  cumulative,  and 
no  one  cared.  So  he  went  one  night  to  the 
dingiest  hotel  in  that  whirlpool  city  of  New 
York,  with  a  big  revolver  in  his  pocket, 
intending  to  make  his  sleep  a  lasting  one. 
He  thought  it  unjust  to  himself  to  take  his 
life  except  at  a  time  when  his  brain  was 
clear;  there  was  no  emotional  insanity 
about  him;  he  simply  thought  that  pen 
ury,  loneliness,  and  an  incurable  complaint 
were  justification  enough.  So  he  slept  for 
an  hour  or  two,  then  he  wakened  about  five 
of  a  winter's  morning;  but  outside  of  his 
cheerless  room,  in  the  dark,  criminally  cold 
entry,  he  heard  a  voice  singing — a  voice 
rich  with  an  inimitable  brogue  — "  The 
Rocky  Road  to  Dublin,"  sung  in  a  voice 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  151 

clear  and  true,  with  the  most  marvellous 
co-relation  to  her  work,  for  her  work  con 
sisted  of  washing,  with  soap,  water,  and  a 
scrubbing-brush,  a  most  ungrateful  hall. 
As  she  banged  her  brush  into  the  corners 
to  efface  some  encrusted  dirt,  her  voice 
rose  high  and  the  time  grew  faster,  then, 
as  it  returned  to  the  open,  she  once  more 
dropped  into  a  rhythmic  swing;  the  sweep 
of  her  brush  on  the  floor  was  her  baton. 
My  friend  lay  quiet  for  awhile,  and  thought 
of  what  this  woman  had  to  live  for,  and  yet 
was  happy,  and  of  what  still  remained  to 
him  in  life.  It  resulted  in  his  slinking  out 
of  the  house  with  shame  in  his  heart,  but 
later  in  the  day  he  found  himself  whistling 
"  The  Rocky  Road  to  Dublin,"  and  making 
light  of  his  daily  task. 

As  for  you,  dear  old  chap,  you  are  one 
of  God's  right-hand  men,  for  you  have  for- 


152  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

gotten  creeds,  and  know  nothing  but  the 
Golden  Rule.  A  God  who  needs  to  be 
worshipped  in  a  set,  formal  way  is  a  crea 
tion  of  a  finite  mind. 

"  So  many  gods,  so  many  creeds, 
Too  many  paths  that  wind  and  wind, 
While  the  art  of  being  always  kind 
Is  all  this  sad  world  needs." 

And  now  for  my  affairs. 

I  had  an  accidental  interview  with  B. 
to-day  I  think  it  might  amuse  you  to  de 
scribe.  I  was  seated  in  the  bay-window 
of  the  Aiken  Club,  one  of  the  cosiest,  most 
intelligently  planned  clubs  I  was  ever  in. 
The  smoke  of  my  cigarette  was  doing  mar 
vellous  scrollwork  in  a  sunbeam.  A  mock 
ing-bird  was  making  love  in  the  most 
shameless  way  outside,  and  thanking  God 
for  the  opportunity  in  a  roulade  of  mu 
sical  notes.  A  cluster  of  men  were  on  the 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  153 

piazza,  calling  their  "  niggers "  to  bring 
their  buggies.  Rastus,  Mengo,  Rabbit, 
and  Smart  were  the  names  I  heard.  I 
had  ordered  a  "  Pink  Daisy,"  a  favourite 
drink  down  here.  By  the  bye,  don't  worry 
about  my  drinking  —  the  climate  here  sup 
plies  you  with  all  the  ginger  and  cham 
pagne  you  need.  My  "  wee  nippie  "  had 
come,  and  I  was  fain  to  be  as  thankful  as 
the  mocking-bird,  when,  looking  up,  I  saw 
the  handsome  if  sinister  face  of  B.  He 
dropped  into  a  chair  by  my  side,  and 
"  opened  the  ball "  by  saying,  in  the  most 
inconsequential  way: 

"  Got  any  illusions  left,  Dayton?  " 

Not  knowing  what  he  intended  should 
follow,  for  a  moment  I  was  at  a  loss  for 
an  answer. 

"  A  few,"  I  replied. 

"  Believe  in  the  Bible  and  women  and 


154  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

chastity  and  the  special  interposition  of 
Providence,  I  suppose;  must  have  those 
important  ones  left,  I  imagine." 

I  told  him  I  believed  in  the  Bible  partly, 
in  woman  altogether,  in  chastity  as  worthy 
of  practice,  and  in  the  special  interposition 
of  Providence  not  at  all. 

Purposely  misunderstanding  me,  he  said: 

"  Yes,  I  believe  in  women  altogether  in 
so  far  as  their  intelligence  is  concerned  — 
collectively  they  know  what  they  want,  and 
individually  they  get  it.  The  direct  cut 
they  take  to  gain  their  ends,  disregarding 
what  is  hurt  by  the  way,  excites  my  admira 
tion.  They  are  human  ploughs  that  cast 
on  either  side  whatever  interferes,  who 
make  furrows  in  which  they  plant  poison 
ous  seeds." 

"  How  often  were  you  jilted?"  I  asked 
him.  "  That's  generally  the  way  a  fellow 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  155 

talks  when  a  good  woman  has  discovered 
he's  a  bad  man." 

"  Twice,"  he  answered,  unabashed  — 
"  once  by  a  woman  who  was  too  good  to 
be  true,  and  once  by  a  woman  who  was  too 
true  to  be  believed  —  a  communicant  and 
a  coryphee." 

"  Don't  you  find  alliteration  an  ingrow 
ing  habit?  "  I  asked.  "  It  is  apt  to  make 
you  say  what  you  really  don't  mean." 

Here  he  sweepingly  insulted  all  women, 
as  one  might  wantonly  throw  mud  at  a 
marble  statue. 

You  must  know,  Percy,  no  matter  what 
you  think  of  my  conduct  now,  that  my  re 
spect  and  admiration  for  women  has  been 
a  part  of  me  so  long  as  to  be  a  habit  of 
mind.  I  have  met  many  bad  women,  who 
were  in  most  ways  better  than  good  men. 
I  thought  perhaps  he  knew  this  feeling  of 


156  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

mine,  and  was  trying  to  work  up  a  quarrel 
that  would  lead  to  fight.  Frankly  I  was 
ready  and  willing,  and  I  longed,  as  I  never 
had  to  kiss  a  woman,  to  plant  one  convinc 
ing  blow  on  that  inviting  mouth.  Love 
does  not  thrive  on  opposition,  but  hate 
does;  love,  like  water,  cannot  run  up-hill, 
but  hate  can,  and  my  hate  of  him  was  run 
ning  up  over  the  barriers  of  my  better  judg 
ment,  like  the  tide  in  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
but  I  realised  that  any  struggle  between 
us  would  only  injure  the  one  I  sought  to 
protect.  But  no,  he  was  still  smiling  that 
smile  which  the  Devil  carved  on  his  face. 

By  simply  twisting  his  words,  I  turned 
his  insult  into  a  compliment. 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  then,  yawn 
ing,  arose  and  said:  "Well  turned,  my 
boy,"  then  added:  "Dayton,  there  have 
been  more  men  ruined  by  women  than 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  157 

women  by  men.  There  are  only  two  things 
that  prevent  a  man  being  immoderately 
happy  in  this  world  :  one  is  lack  of  money, 
the  other  women ;  to  possess  the  first  is  con 
tent,  to  possess  the  latter  is  hell.  I  advise 
you  to  go  slowly,  to  go  damned  slowly." 

Then  he  strolled  away.  What  do  you 
think  of  him?  I  shall  ignore  his  existence. 

Perhaps  you  think  I  understand  women, 
and  perhaps  I  do,  but  I  doubt  it.  I  think 
God  does,  but  He  is  the  only  one.  A  will 
ing  man  must  be  a  chameleon  to  adapt 
himself  to  a  woman's  moods.  Then  again, 
sometimes  it  is  the  woman  who  is  the  cha 
meleon,  and  adapts  her  colour  to  her  sur 
roundings,  and  less  frequently  the  woman, 
who  is  beauty  allied  to  force,  compels  her 
surroundings  to  adapt  themselves  to  her. 
To  try  to  please  one  woman  is  no  worse 
than  trying  to  please  everybody,  like  the 


158  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

man  with  the  ass  in  jEsop's  fable.  At  least 
thirty  distinct  people  reside  in  the  skin  of 
one  woman.  I  say  thirty  advisedly,  be 
cause  I  have  calculated.  The  female  pop 
ulation  of  this  earth  should  be  multiplied 
by  thirty  if  you  really  wish  to  know  how 
many  people  there  are  in  the  world.  A 
man's  moods  change  from  the  outside  in; 
something  happens  to  depress  him,  and  he 
is  depressed,  something  happens  to  elate, 
and  he  is  elated;  but  the  woman  changes 
from  the  inside  out,  without  any  indebted 
ness  to  outside  cause.  The  man  is  a  ther 
mometer  regulated  by  the  climate  of  his 
affairs,  the  woman  is  a  thermometer  regu 
lated  by  the  condition  of  her  insides.  Don't 
think  this  flippant,  because  it  is  true.  I 
could  give  you  an  intermediate  reason  that 
would  sound  prettier,  but,  if  you  care  to 
go  to  "  first  causes,"  you  will  see  that  I  am 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  159 

right,  and  any  reasoning  woman  will  tell 
you  so. 

I  had  a  walk  with  Mrs.  B.  this  morning. 
We  walked  all  the  way  to  Robinson's  Pond, 
which,  being  quite  a  tramp,  indicated  a 
desire  on  her  part  to  be  with  me.  During 
the  whole  time  she  was  monosyllabic,  and 
yet  kept  on  walking. 

Didn't  she  care  for  me  any  more? 

Yes. 

Had  I  done  anything  to  offend  her? 

No. 

What  was  the  matter? 

Nothing. 

Show  me  the  man  who  has  not  had  a 
similar  talk  with  the  woman  he  loves,  and 
I'll  show  you  a  man  who  lies.  I  tried  to 
make  myself  acceptable  in  forty  different 
ways;  I  kept  silent  in  seven  languages.  I 
sat  on  my  hind  legs  and  begged,  played 


160  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

dead,  offered  to  shake  hands,  but  it  was 
of  no  use.  At  last,  being  for  the  moment 
honestly  bored,  I  yawned.  Hereafter, 
Percy,  when  in  doubt,  yawn.  A  yawn, 
which  is  a  relaxation  to  you,  is  a  wonder 
ful  tonic  to  a  woman.  It  affects  her  pride, 
and  her  pride  is  the  only  thing  that  affects 
her  insides.  I  never  had  a  chance  to  yawn 
for  the  rest  of  that  day.  I  never  had  an 
opportunity  to  open  my  mouth  again.  She 
was  brilliant.  One  woman  could  give  va 
riety  to  eternity.  With  her,  I  am  playing 
one  moment  on  the  blue  limpid  ice  of  intel 
lectuality,  and  the  next  am  romping  amidst 
the  heavy  sensuous  verdure  of  the  tropics. 
At  last  I  am  the  beginning  and  the  end  of 
all  things  to  myself  —  at  last,  I  am  I,  and 
she  is  God's  masterpiece  in  womanhood, 
that  beckons  to  all  sides  of  my  nature  at 
once.  I  love  her  in  a  thousand  different 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  161 

ways,  for  she  is  a  thousand  different  women 
to  me.  When  I  am  with  her,  I  am  lumi 
nous;  when  she  leaves  me,  I  am  the  like 
ness  of  a  starless  night. 

Wednesday. 

As  you  perceive,  several  days  have 
elapsed  since  the  last  sentence  was  written. 
The  reason  is  I  sprained  my  thumb,  and 
when  I  tried  to  hold  a  pencil,  it  fluttered 
like  an  aspen  leaf.  I  sprained  my  thumb 
by  an  overexertion  of  the  muscles  in  an 
honest  effort  to  choke  a  man  to  death.  It 
is  quite  a  new  sensation  for  me  to  realise 
that  a  moment  more  and  I  would  be  a  mur 
derer.  Somehow  the  thought  does  not  fit 
into  the  rest  of  my  life.  However,  here 
after,  whenever  I  am  dull  and  bored,  I 
can  picture  the  close,  ill-smelling  court 
room,  the  judge  who,  as  he  mechanically 
listens,  is  thinking  of  his  lunch,  the  prose- 


1 62  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

cutor  who,  though  he  might  think  me  inno 
cent,  would  still  plead  for  my  death,  the 
cheap  oratory  of  my  hired  defender,  and 
the  fatuous  faces  of  the  "  twelve  good  men 
and  true,"  through  whose  brains  an  idea 
would  sink  about  as  fast  as  a  leaden  pel 
let  would  through  dough  —  and  then  the 
hanging.  I  know  just  how  I  should  look, 
as  I  have  a  photograph  taken  here  of  a 
negro  who  had  been  lynched,  hanged  to 
the  first  tree.  In  life  he  had  been  a  small 
man,  but,  after  being  hanged  by  the  neck, 
he  became  surprisingly  long  and  attenu 
ated.  My  six  feet  two,  similarly  elongated, 
would  have  the  appearance  of  three  yards 
of  black  tape.  You  see  now  I  have  some 
thing  to  amuse  me  on  a  rainy  day. 

This  is  the  way  it  happened,  if  you  care 
to  hear.  You  see  I  doubt  your  sympathy; 
I  seem  to  be  receding  from  you  so  fast  as 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  163 

to  leave  you  a  mere  speck  back  through 
the  vista  of  years.  I  wonder  is  there  any 
of  the  Christ  in  your  religion.  Most  men's 
religion  only  teaches  them  how  not  to  for 
give.  "  Evil  communications  corrupt  good 
manners ; "  be  careful  as  you  read,  O 
"  man  of  God." 

The  men  had  all  gone  shooting,  includ 
ing  B.  Mrs.  B.  and  I  had  gone  for  one 
of  our  walks  through  the  soldierly  pines  — 
they,  so  loyal,  that  even  after  death  their 
skeletons  stand  upright  and  at  attention  be 
fore  their  Lord.  At  last,  tired  but  happy, 
we  sat  down  on  a  log  by  the  side  of  a  dried 
river-bed  filled  with  sand.  I  begged  her 
to  leave  her  husband  —  to  come  with  me. 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  rather 
quizzically,  and  said: 

"  Is  not  that  proposition  somewhat  im- 
modern?  People  don't  do  that  sort  of  thing 


1 64  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

nowadays.  In  olden  times  it  was  possible 
to  hide,  but  now  no  one  can  be  lost  to  the 
world  until  under  ten  feet  of  earth,  or  at 
the  bottom  of  the  fathomless  sea.  Under 
those  circumstances,  to  be  happy  one  must 
be  lost  among  strangers;  our  friends  would 
never  permit  us  to  forget  the  immorality  of 
our  relations.  The  little  delusion  that  it 
would  have  been  sinful  to  have  done  other 
wise,  a  delusion  that  all  people  so  situated 
bind  to  their  souls  '  with  hooks  of  steel,'  is 
seldom  shared  by  their  friends."  Then  she 
turned  and,  looking  me  squarely  in  the  eyes, 
asked : 

"  Why  do  you  never  speak  of  your  wife? 
Why  do  you  never  mention  her  name?  — 
answer  me  that  first.  A  man  who  can  so 
completely  forget  one  woman,  can  more 
easily  forget  two.  Forgetfulness  improves 
with  practice,  like  anything  else." 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  165 

I  told  her  that  north,  south,  east,  or  west, 
whichever  way  I  looked,  I  saw  nothing  but 
her,  that  an  opaque  curtain  had  fallen  be 
tween  me  and  my  past.  This  is  all  I  said, 
for  you  cannot  bemore  one  person  by  be 
littling  another. 

For  a  moment  she  seemed  lost  in  thought, 
then  she  asked: 

"Where  and  how  can  we  go?" 

I  answered:  "We  can  take  the  train 
from  here  to  Augusta,  catching  the  '  Palm 
Limited,'  and  —  " 

"  Ah,  but  those  trains  don't  connect," 
said  a  voice  behind  us.  "  You'll  have  to 
go  to  Blackville  to  meet  the  '  Florida 
Flyer.' '  I  knew  the  voice,  and  so  did  she. 
Slowly  our  heads  turned  automatically  in 
his  direction;  there  sat  B.,  with  his  inevi 
table  smile,  his  gun  resting  between  his  legs. 


1 66  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

He  added :  "  You  know,  Dayton,  there 
is  a  time-table  at  the  club." 

As  for  my  sensations,  you  can  guess  at 
them  better  than  I  can  describe  them.  He 
rose  first,  and  moved  out  into  the  throat 
of  the  river,  which  was  as  parched  as  mine. 
I  gave  one  glance  at  her;  she  was  like  a 
flower  that  had  grown  old  in  a  night.  We 
two  walked  up  to  him  until  he  turned  and 
faced  us,  as  children  might  to  learn  their 
fate.  He  looked  at  us  a  moment,  and  then 
said,  in  a  voice  the  music  of  which  I  no 
ticed  for  the  first  time: 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  never  blame  a  man  for 
a  condition  of  this  sort;  man  at  his  best  is 
a  predatory  beast — I  blame  the  woman." 
Then  turning  to  her,  he  added :  "  My  dear, 
I  think  a  little  old-fashioned  corporal  pun 
ishment  will  do  you  good.  You  —  " 

As  the  last  word  came  to  his  mouth,  it 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  167 

was  as  if  you  had  pricked  a  balloon  of 
blood.  His  face,  which  had  been  white, 
became  scarlet,  and,  raising  his  clenched 
fist,  repeating,  "You  —  "  But  that  word 
was  never  formulated.  I  was  too  quick; 
an  old-fashioned  "  lock  "  that  I  remember 
brought  him  to  the  ground,  with  me  on  top. 
I  am  honest  in  saying  that  for  a  moment 
my  heart  refused  its  functions;  with  my 
fist  raised  in  the  air,  I  tried  to  strike,  but 
my  fist  would  not  fall.  I  was  like  a  graven 
image;  life  had  been  arrested.  Then  my 
heart,  wishing  to  make  up  for  lost  time, 
raced  like  a  propeller  out  of  water,  and 
my  hand  descended  on  his  throat  as  un 
yielding  as  the  grip  of  death.  I  choked  and 
choked  until  his  eyes  lay  like  partially 
ripened  grapes  upon  his  cheeks.  Lord 
bless  your  heart,  it  was  funny  to  see  him 
wiggle;  he  had  the  strength  of  one  man. 


1 68  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

and  I  of  ten  devils.  As  he  weakened,  I 
changed  my  right  hand  on  his  neck  to  the 
left,  and,  taking  a  handful  of  the  powdered 
sand  on  which  we  lay,  sifted  it  gently  down 
his  purple  throat.  I  meant  there  should  be 
silence  there  for  some  time;  it  would  be 
yet  a  little  while  before  he  could  call  her 
that  name.  Then  I  looked  up  at  her,  who 
was  watching  God's  duty  taken  from  His 
hands,  and  smiled.  There  she  stood,  with 
her  hands  interlaced  in  front  of  her  and  a 
look  of  apathetic  indifference  on  her  face. 
With  a  low  questioning  voice,  she  asked: 

"  It  is  enough,  is  it  not?  " 

The  lust  of  murder  flew  from  me  at  the 
sound  of  her  steady  voice,  and  I  answered, 
"  Yes,"  and,  gazing  at  the  death-mask  he 
had  for  a  face,  I  felt  perhaps  too  much. 

That's  all.  We  took  him  home  between 
us.  It  wasn't  a  pleasant  drive.  It  is  weari- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  169 

some  waiting  for  God  to  take  vengeance, 
but  when  we  attempt  to  do  His  work,  it 
creeps  over  us  He  might  have  done  it  better. 
We  met  no  one  on  the  way  back,  and  I 
carried  him  to  his  room  and  placed  him 
on  his  bed  almost  tenderly.  Nothing  to 
me  seemed  to  matter  much.  Perhaps  I 
had  killed,  and  perhaps  not.  "  Perhaps " 
seemed  almost  as  big  a  word  as  "  if,"  but 
both  seemed  unimportant. 

A  servant  telephoned  for  the  doctor,  and  I 
left.  She  and  I  shook  hands  like  two  bored 
people  at  a  ball,  saying,  "  Good  night." 

I  can't  write  you  much  more,  for  my 
thumb  pains  me. 

Sunday  afternoon. 

I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  the  ex 
istence  of  hell,  as  I  have  it  within  me.  I 
have  been  waiting  in  suspense,  which  is 
my  idea  of  hell,  for  four  days  —  would 


i yo  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

he  live?  would  he  die?  Iteration  and  re 
iteration  produce  insanity.  I  have  not 
been  to  the  house  where  he  lies  to  inquire. 
I  walk  past  there  hourly,  and  look  at  the 
door-bell.  The  Scotch  whiskey  here  is 
very  good,  but  not  strong  enough.  I  could 
drink  a  gallon  and  not  feel  it.  It  is  curi 
ous  how  one  vice  entails  another.  I  never 
knew  how  necessary  sleep  is.  I  have  never 
been  without  it  before ;  not  sleeping,  I  find, 
makes  one  quite  nervous. 

I  heard  .a  man  telling  another  in  the  club 
to-day  of  an  accident  that  had  happened 
to  B.  —  he  had  tripped  and  fallen  and 
wrenched  his  neck.  Suddenly  the  man 
turned  to  me  and  said: 

"  For  God's  sake,  Dayton,  stop  staring 
idiotically  at  your  hands.  They're  quite 
clean." 

I  must  break  myself  of  this  foolish  habit. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  171 

Monday. 

I  had  hardly  finished  dressing  this  morn 
ing  when  a  note  was  brought  to  me.  I  saw 
it  was  from  his  cottage,  then  I  knew  he  was 
dead.  I  did  not  think  anything  about  it. 
I  knew  he  was  dead.  I  threw  the  letter 
to  one  side  —  why  open  it?  I  peered  in 
the  glass:  I  wanted  to  get  a  good  look  at 
a  murderer.  It  so  happens  I  have  never 
seen  one.  A  murderer  develops  a  strong 
likeness  to  the  man  he  has  killed.  I  seemed 
the  image  of  B.  At  last  I  opened  the  note, 
and  this  is  what  I  read:  — 

"  DEAR  DAYTON  :  — 

"  I  cannot  as  yet  talk,  as  you  of  all  men 
can  best  imagine  (sand  in  the  throat  is  out 
of  place),  but  I  can  write.  Do  not  wait  in 
Aiken  longer  than  you  wish,  for  any  duel 
or  other  such  nonsense.  There  will  be 


172  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

none.  If  I  thought  my  wife  actually  guilty, 
I  should  make  of  her  a  present  to  you.  I 
could  never  see  the  sense  of  a  man's  risk 
ing  his  life  for  an  unworthy  cause.  As  for 
what  you  did  to  me,  I  feel  no  resentment. 
A  man  has  a  right  to  do  anything  to  a 
woman  but  strike  her.  I  was  a  bit  hasty. 
Don't  be  dull,  and  take  me  for  a  coward 
—  I  assure  you  fear  was  left  out  in  my 
make-up.  As  I  believe  my  wife  to  be 
guilty  only  in  intention,  I  propose  to  re 
tain  her  services,  as  we  say  in  the  law,  and 
punish  her  in  my  own  sweet  way. 

"  Yours, 

"  B." 

A  characteristic  letter,  don't  you  think 
so,  Percy? 

I  leave  here  to-morrow  for  Washington. 

Yours, 

DOUGLAS. 


FIFTEENTH   LETTER 

Boston,  Mass. 

You  have  had  the  sensation,  my  dear 
Douglas,  of  wishing  to  awake  and  throw 
off  the  amorphous  incubus  of  a  bad  dream. 
I  read  your  letter,  and  still  feel  as  though 
it  were  a  dream  or  a  tale,  —  something  I 
shall  awake  from  and  find  unreal.  All  this, 
the  moral  side  as  well  as  the  physical  side, 
is  so  far  away  from  me.  It  is  like  sitting 
in  the  gentle  sunshine  of  a  spring  day,  and 
seeing  a  hurricane  uprooting,  tearing,  and 
smashing  among  the  homes  of  your  neigh 
bours. 

I  am  somewhat  shaky,  morally,  to  find 
myself,  in  a  sense,  the  confessor,  shut  up  in 

a  box  in  the  cathedral  of  my  infirmities, 

173 


174  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

listening  to  cruelties  and  passions  of  which 
I  know  so  little,  and  over  which  I  have  so 
little  control.  I  was  a  man  once  myself, 
to  be  sure,  but  I  was  professionally  shel 
tered  from  the  storm  and  stress  of  such  ex 
periences  as  these.  I  try  to  think  what  I 
would  do  in  a  like  predicament,  or  what 
I  would  have  another  do  for  me  were  I  you, 
and  I  only  know  that  I  would  wish  to  be 
trusted  still,  and  to  be  cared  for  the  more, 
the  more  I  found  my  feet  in  miry  places. 
Let  me  do  that  for  you!  Perhaps  if  I  were 
stronger  physically,  I  should  be  harsher 
spiritually  than  I  now  find  I  can  be.  The 
pride  of  bone  and  blood  and  muscle  is  no 
longer  mine.  Perhaps  I  have  a  sympathy 
for  weakness,  born  of  weakness.  What  a 
poor  creature  is  man  even  in  his  best  state 
that  he  should  in  a  moment  be  dashed  from 
physical  prowess  to  invalidism  by  a  horse, 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  175 

like  me;  or  picked  up  and  whirled  into  a 
vortex  of  adventures,  over  which  he  has 
little  control,  by  a  woman,  like  you! 

We  walk  about  like  "  forked  radishes,"  as 
Swift  says,  knowing  one  another  largely  by 
the  clothes  we  wear,  until  of  a  sudden  this 
one  or  that  one  is  galvanised  into  a  display 
of  passion,  or  knavery,  as  the  case  may  be, 
and  lo,  we  are  surprised!  We  know  not 
what  to  do,  what  to  prescribe,  what  attitude 
to  take.  We  call  this  good,  the  other  bad, 
and  stumble  about  in  our  hobnailed  boots 
amongst  broken  hearts  and  damaged  repu 
tations  and  homes  in  pieces  and  shattered 
hopes,  like  so  many  clodhoppers  in  a  pic 
ture  gallery.  We  gape,  stare,  and  do  not 
understand.  There  is  a  Fortuny,  there  a 
Rousseau,  there  a  Diaz,  and  here  again  a 
Vibert;  but,  so  far  as  Hans  and  the  other 
yokels  are  concerned,  they  might  as  well 


1 76  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

never  have  been  painted.  I  feel  that  way 
now,  hence  I  have  a  deal  of  sympathy  for 
those  who  look  upon  the  men  about  them 
as  so  many  suits  of  clothes.  There  they 
hang  on  the  line.  A  workingman's  blouse, 
an  admiral's  uniform,  an  Anglo-dandiacal 
frock  coat,  innumerable  "  business  suits," 
so  called,  of  dull  browns  and  grays,  here 
and  there  a  dash  of  colour,  a  line  of  red  or 
check  of  purple  or  yellow.  There  they 
hang  and  swing,  according  as  the  wind 
blows  soft  or  hard.  Of  a  sudden  the  frock 
coat  bulges  out,  capers  about,  swings  its 
arms,  takes  possession  of  some  female  bag 
gage  with  another's  tag  upon  it,  and  is  off 
the  line  in  a  jiffy. 

There  is  a  boom  of  cannon,  a  yelling, 
rattling,  tramping,  and  the  admiral's  uni 
form  fills  out,  becomes  imposing,  waves 
commands  with  dignity  and  purpose,  and 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  177 

off  the  line  it  slips,  and  we  have  a  hero  that 
we  scarcely  know  what  to  do  with.  We 
weep  and  laugh  and  dance  over  this  uni 
form,  and  then  in  no  time  there  it  is  on 
the  line  again,  bedraggled,  soiled,  shop 
worn,  as  empty  as  ever. 

A  "  business  suit "  spruces  up,  the  pock 
ets  bulge  with  notes  and  gold;  there  is  a 
chink  and  a  tinkle  as  it  moves,  and  lo,  that 
plain  brown  suit  with  the  red  lines  is  a 
millionaire! 

The  workingman's  blouse  grows  tremu 
lous  as  to  the  sleeves,  the  bosom  part  heaves 
and  falls,  there  is  unwonted  and  excited 
motion,  and  bless  my  soul,  here  is  a  socialist 
upon  us  without  warning,  fencing  with  con 
servative  journals,  trying  a  fall  with  Mai- 
lock,  or  any  other  champion  of  the  old 
order. 

Now  what  is  a  plain  simpleton  like  me 


178  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

to  do,  to  think!  I  know  all  those  suits  of 
clothes  well  enough.  I  know  the  creases, 
the  wrinkles,  the  patches,  the  shiny  parts, 
—  all  about  them  in  fact,  —  or  so  I  flatter 
myself.  I  have  my  philosophy  of  life,  into 
which  these  suits  of  clothes  fit;  I  can  deal 
with  them;  I  can  guess  what  they  will  do. 
When  the  wind  is  from  the  east,  they  will 
swing  toward  the  west;  when  the  wind  is 
from  the  north,  they  will  swing  toward  the 
south.  The  whole  clothes-line  of  them  is 
simple  enough,  and  I  am  accustomed  to 
their  ways  and  mannerisms.  But  what  be 
comes  of  my  opinions,  of  my  prejudices, 
my  principles,  even,  when  these  tame  suits 
of  clothes  become  possessed  of  devils  or 
angels,  as  the  case  may  be,  begin  to  act 
according  to  laws  of  which  I  know  nothing, 
propelled  by  impulses  and  passions  not  to 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  179 

be  found  in  any  book  on  social  haberdash 
ery. 

You  must  not  think  me  flippant,  my  dear 
Douglas,  in  writing  thus  to  you.  I  am  writ 
ing  to  myself  really.  I  am  puzzled,  and 
trying  to  write  my  thoughts  upon  a  black 
board,  so  that  I  may  see  how  they  look  a 
few  paces  off.  Here  we  are,  an  old  and 
dear  friend  of  mine  suddenly  assuming  a 
principal  and  dangerous — and  to  me  equiv 
ocal  —  part  in  a  drama.  It  is  all  very  well 
for  other  spectators  to  applaud  or  hiss  or 
remain  silent;  with  me  it  is  different. 
When  your  own  boy  is  brought  home  with 
a  bullet  through  his  lungs,  war  becomes  a 
very  different  matter  from  the  lazy  reading 
of  the  head-lines  of  a  morning  paper. 

I  am  no  great  hand  at  devouring  the 
newspaper-told  tales  of  scandal  and  domes 
tic  trouble.  It  all  seems  far  away  from  me, 


i8o  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

and  interests  me  almost  not  at  all.  Now, 
without  warning,  I  am  personally  involved, 
—  sympathetically,  at  any  rate,  —  in  what 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  very  dreadful  affair.  I 
could  not  stand  by  and  see  a  woman  pum 
melled  in  the  face,  even  though  the  aggres 
sor  were  her  husband,  and  I  perhaps  the 
cause  of  the  trouble.  Yet  I  fear  I  do  you 
harm  in  seconding  you  in  any  of  the  details 
of  the  affair.  That  it  is  all  wrong,  I  have  not 
a  shadow  of  doubt.  That  is  easy  enough  to 
settle  with  my  conscience.  I  hope  some  day 
to  settle  it  so  with  yours  ;  but  when  I  come 
to  go  into  details,  I  find  it  hard  to  lay  down 
hard  and  fast  rules.  I  am  like  a  surgeon 
who  lacks  confidence  when  he  comes  to  deal 
with  his  own  child,  and  must  needs  turn 
the  case  over  to  some  one  else.  If  I  did 
not  know  you,  if  I  did  not  care  for  you, 
if  I  had  not  invited  these  very  confidences 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  181 

that  now  overwhelm  me,  I  should  cut  and 
cauterise  and  sew  up  without  a  tremble  of 
the  hand.  To  be  quite  frank  with  you,  I 
do  not  wish  to  lose  you,  you  or  your  friend 
ship.  We  do  not  make  many  new  friends 
after  forty.  We  get  stiff  and  self-engrossed 
and  much  employed  with  our  own  business} 
and  somewhat  suspicious,  too,  perhaps.  I 
would  rather  remain  your  physician  than 
pack  you  off  to  those  who  care  very  little 
whether  you  are  well  or  ill,  and  nothing 
at  all  whether  you  are  happy  or  unhappy, 
wise  or  foolish.  I  believe  that  the  very  best 
thing  that  one  man  can  do  for  another  in 
this  world  is  to  believe  in  him.  I  propose 
to  believe  in  you,  my  dear  boy,  till  you  go 
mad  or  die.  There  are  better  things  in  you 
than  those  things  that  occupy  you  now. 
You  will  scoff  now,  but  there  are  nobler 
things  to  love  than  what  you  now  love. 


182  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

Mercy  and  sympathy  and  chivalry  have 
somehow  combined  to  cheat  you.  It  is 
always  so,  I  suppose,  in  life.  A  man  finds 
himself  tempted  by  the  very  virtues  he 
worships.  Life  is  not  the  simple  thing, 
then,  of  clothes  on  a  line.  You  are  in  that 
evil  case  now.  You  are  asked  to  be  merci 
ful,  but  to  the  wrong  person.  You  are 
asked  to  be  courageous,  but  in  the  wrong 
quarrel.  Your  sympathies  are  excited,  but 
toward  the  wrong  object.  You  are  drawn 
into  loving  what  you  ought  not  to  love. 
The  Devil  isn't  dead  yet.  I  see  that  clearly 
enough.  He  has  been  more  than  a  match 
for  you,  and  he  puzzles  me  greatly. 

You  write  that  you  are  on  your  way  to 
Washington.  Can  you  not  interest  yourself 
in  the  life  there?  Write  me  about  it.  It 
will  interest  me  greatly.  Or  why  not  come 
North  altogether?  I  will  go  back  to  West 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  183 

Braintree  and  open  the  house,  and  we  will 
have  a  week  or  two  there.  Dull  enough 
prospect  for  you,  perhaps,  but  it  would 
be  giving  me  great  pleasure.  At  all  events, 
keep  me  posted  about  your  movements. 
Remember  that  I  would  help  if  I  could, 
and  above  all  remember  that  I  am  impar 
tially  and  loyally  your  well-wisher,  and 
always 

Affectionately  yours, 

PERCY  DASHIEL. 


SIXTEENTH    LETTER 

Washington. 

DEAR  PERCY:  — 

Your  kind  letter  received.  I  hope  sin 
cerely  you  will  stick  to  me  and  believe  in 
me,  "  come  what  come  may,  even  if  I  go 
mad;"  if  you  don't,  I  promise  to  become 
an  atheist.  You  cannot  seem  to  understand 
I  am  not  the  least  ashamed  of  myself,  but 
per  contra  am  as  proud  as  a  peacock  — 
head  held  high,  chest  thrown  out,  and  de 
fiance  in  my  eye.  Whether  I  shall  go  back 
to  dear  old  Aiken,  or  remain  here  a  little 
longer,  I  have  not  decided.  You  see,  as  I 
wrote  to  you,  I  mean  to  ignore  his  existence, 
that  is,  as  much  as  it  is  possible  to  ignore 

where  you  hate.     In  the  meanwhile  I  am 

184 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  185 

happy.  My  conscience  cannot  be  very 
clouded,  as  I  do  not  remember  when  I  have 
enjoyed  the  swift,  sweet  hours  of  sleep  so 
much  as  now.  Did  you  ever  realise  that 
sleep  is  the  brain's  recess;  then  it  plays  as 
it  likes ;  it  is  no  longer  the  slave  of  the  will, 
hence  the  amusing  inconsequence  of  dreams. 

No  one  can  be  sinful  and  happy,  so  please 
cease  thinking  of  me  as  a  "  monster  of  hid 
eous  mien;  "  besides,  if  heaven  is  only  peo 
pled  by  "  those  without  sin,"  it  will  be 
crowded  with  babies,  and  I  never  was  fond 
of  the  nursery  as  a  living-room. 

Because  you  never  mention  my  wife,  I 
know  you  are  thinking  a  great  deal  about 
her,  but  do  not  worry.  A  real  grievance 
would  be  a  godsend  to  her.  I  don't  wish 
to  be  disloyal,  but  I  can  speak  of  her  to 
you  when  I  could  not  to  Mrs.  B.  She  be 
longs,  as  you  know,  to  that  class  of  people 


1 86  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

one  would  like  to  make  happy —  at  a  great 
distance.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  life  of  a 
peace-loving  husband  is  one  of  a  human 
intaglio,  made  so  by  the  aggressive  angular 
ity  of  an  assertive  wife.  Divorces  begin 
when  he  tires  of  being  an  intaglio  and  tries 
to  become  a  cameo;  besides,  it  is  difficult 
to  keep  fond  of  those  who  always  manage 
to  associate  themselves  in  our  minds  with 
trouble.  With  most  men  and  women,  the 
quickest  way  to  grow  apart  is  to  live  to 
gether.  Do  not  think  ill  of  me  for  speak 
ing  in  this  way,  remember  I  am  writing 
to  my  father  confessor.  In  this  matter  I 
may  be  all  wrong,  and  I  may  not;  I  never 
know.  Your  life  has  tended  to  make  you 
positive  in  regard  to  all  things,  mine  to 
make  me  uncertain  about  everything.  You 
would  not  distrust  your  judgment  any  more 
than  your  God.  I  might  distrust  both.  My 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  187 

present  predicament  may  be  God's  own  do 
ing —  how  do  you  know  to  the  contrary? 
It  seems  to  me  sometimes  as  if  the  Creator 
were  not  omnipotent,  but  was  playing  a 
game  of  -chess  with  the  Devil  —  the  world 
the  board,  mortals  as  pawns.  This  might 
account  for  the  incomprehensible  moves, 
involving  cruelty,  misery,  and  unnecessary 
death,  that  are  made  by  fate;  they  may  be 
God's  moves  of  expediency  to  save  the  game 
in  the  end. 

All  that  grieves  me  at  present  is  the  fact 
that  I  grieve  you,  but  stay  by  me,  Percy, 
old  man;  sometimes  evil  is  done  that  good 
may  come.  Wait  with  me  till  the  end. 
You  ask  me  to  interest  myself  in  Washing 
ton.  I  have.  It  is  unique  in  this  country; 
it  will  be  the  best  residential  city  of  the 
world  sometime.  In  my  opinion,  it  is  the 
best  governed  city  in  the  States,  and  that 


i88  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

is  because  the  residents  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  government.  In  Washington  the 
rich  have  some  rights  the  poor  are  bound 
to  respect,  in  New  York  none.  There  is, 
as  you  know,  a  plan  to  beautify  the  city 
on  a  grand  scale,  which  I  understand 
would  go  through  if  the  people  of  South 
Dakota  and  the  people  of  North  Dakota 
would  only  give  their  consent  as  States, 
but  you  can  readily  understand  how  bitterly 
they  feel  when  their  representatives  and 
Senators  have  only  been  able  to  secure  a 
paltry  appropriation  of  $5,000,000  for  a 
post-office  in  a  towrn  of  theirs  of  eight  hun 
dred  inhabitants.  Washington  is  called  a 
city  of  magnificent  distances;  it  is  also  one 
of  unlimited  expectoration.  It  is  the  most 
spittyful  city  in  the  world.  Pardon  me.  I 
think  the  negro  population  is  accountable 
for  this. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  189 

In  this  country  there  is  but  one  slave  left, 
and  he  is  the  President  of  the  United 
States;  also  he  is  the  only  man  who  cannot 
call  his  home  his  own.  President  Roose 
velt  strikes  me  as  a  man  who  is  all  he  tries 
to  be,  and  when  a  man's  ambition  is  to  be 
the  best  exponent  of  what  an  American 
should  be,  that  is  saying  a  great  deal. 

Washington  contains  the  customs  of  a 
village  with  the  vices  of  a  metropolis.  The 
municipal  authorities  have  the  faith  of 
things  unseen;  when  at  night  this  place  is 
wrapped  in  clouds,  but  the  moon  is  shining 
above  the  clouds,  you  walk  in  darkness,  for 
there  are  no  electric  lights.  The  moon  is 
shining  somewhere,  so  have  faith,  for  it 
must  replace  light.  The  man  who  made 
this  rule  must  be  like  A.  Ward's  kangaroo, 
an  "  amoozing  little  cuss." 

I  lunched  at  the  Congressional  Librar-T 


1 90  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

yesterday,  and  my  only  comment  is  that  I 
think  that  the  inside  will  be  less  striking 
but  more  pleasing  a  thousand  years  hence. 
The  colours  in  St.  Mark's  of  Venice  have 
had  time  to  cool  off,  but  those  in  the  Li 
brary  suggest  fresh  paints  on  a  palette,  or 
the  inflamed  colouring  of  a  diphtheritic 
sore  throat. 

Ah,  but  the  men  I  met  at  luncheon !  —  the 
head  librarian  and  his  assistants  —  gentle 
men  one  and  all;  living  in  and  absorbing 
an  atmosphere  of  literature  and  art.  What 
a  sensitising  effect  the  study  of  these  two 
things  has  upon  the  mind!  The  most  no 
ticeable  characteristic  of  these  men  was 
gentleness.  Did  you  ever  meet  a  gentle 
politician?  I  never  did. 

As  for  the  social  life  here,  it  differs  very 
little  from  other  American  cities,  except 
where  the  Diplomatic  Corps  have  intro- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  191 

duced  monarchical  conventionalities.  The 
question  of  precedence  is  a  burning  one, 
and  a  Congressman's  wife,  who  would  have 
followed  her  cook  into  the  kitchen  to  pre 
pare  the  evening  meal,  insists  upon  rising 
and  leaving  a  dinner  party  preceding  an 
other  Congresswoman  who  has  resided  one 
year  less  in  Washington  than  she.  The 
question  agitating  society  just  now  is,  Can  a 
woman  be  at  any  time  a  man?  Can  petti 
coats  ever  replace  pants?  That  is,  can  the 
wife  of  an  ambassador,  at  a  Presidential 
function,  take  the  place  of  her  husband,  if 
he  happens  to  be  ill?  In  most  cities  social 
life  for  the  residents  means  no  change  for 
a  generation  in  the  people  they  meet,  but 
in  Washington  it  is  a  series  of  magic  lan 
tern  slides  in  awesome  rapidity;  over  the 
social  door  of  Washington  society  should 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO 


be  written,  "  Here  to-day  and  gone  to-mor 


row." 


It  is  a  marvellous  place  for  visiting- 
cards.  There  is  a  snow-storm  of  them  all 
the  time.  The  men  call  upon  each  other 
with  the  frequency  of  idle  girls.  Somebody 
calls  on  you;  you  get  out  of  bed  at  four 
in  the  morning  and  return  his  call.  You 
must  drop  a  card  within  the  etiquettical 
time.  He  jumps  into  an  automobile,  tells 
the  driver  to  go  like  a  wave  of  light,  and 
gets  his  return  card  back  to  you  while  you 
are  in  your  bath.  Such  a  toing  and  froing 
you  can't  imagine.  I  have  had  to  order 
from  Tiffany  a  Western  blizzard  of  cards 
to  last  me  out. 

The  girls  here  are  the  same  as  in  any 
other  part  of  this  country.  They  say  you 
can't  paint  a  lily  and  improve  it,  so  you 
can't  describe  an  American  girl  and  do  her 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  193 

justice.  The  other  day  I  lunched  with  an 
American  girl,  brought  up  by  a  perfect 
type  of  American  mother,  and  also  with  a 
foreign  girl  beauty.  I  assure  you  it  worried 
me,  trying  to  forget  all  the  American  girl 
didn't  know  and  I  did,  and  trying  to  re 
member  all  the  foreign  girl  knew  that  I 
had  tried  to  forget.  The  women  here  are 
not  so  clever  as  the  men.  In  New  York 
it  is  just  the  reverse.  I  took  into  dinner 
the  other  night  the  beautiful  wife  of  a  dip 
lomat.  She  informed  me  about  the  mo 
ment  soup  was  served  that  she  had  a  "  lofely 
baby  and  a  lofely  husband."  As  I  knew 
nothing  about  sterilised  milk  and  less  about 
diplomacy,  conversation  flagged.  On  my 
left  I  had  a  lady  you  felt  sure  had  been 
younger  and  prettier,  though  now  she  was 
neither  old  nor  ugly,  but  she  was  fat.  She 
regaled  me  with  all  the  little  errors  of  the 


194  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

other  women  present.  Have  you  never  no 
ticed  that  as  women  grow  older,  fat  and 
circumspection  come  about  the  same  time. 
A  woman,  who  was  frail  in  more  senses 
than  one  when  she  was  slight,  with  the  ac 
cession  of  fat  has  an  accession  of  virtue. 
There  is  always  something  ridiculous  about 
fat.  After  dinner  a  man  talked  to  me  who 
had  a  mind  of  memorised  trifles,  and  lo! 
in  a  little  while  I  felt  that  my  acquaintance 
with  idiocy  had  become  intimacy.  On  this 
occasion  they  had  coloured  servants.  If 
you  ever  have  them,  get  them  pink  or  blue. 
The  butler  we  had  was  a  lump  of  ineffi 
cient  black  pomposity. 

To  be  honest,  I  do  not  care  for  gatherings 
of  any  sort.  People  collectively  are  cattle, 
as  is  proved  by  panics;  individually  they 
are  often  intelligent. 

Every  once  in  awhile  a  gray-haired  states- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  195 

man  passes  out  of  sight  in  a  cloud  of  scan 
dal  involving  one  of  the  opposite  sex. 
Given  a  man  of  intellect  and  a  woman  of 
none,  given  a  man  of  morals  and  a  woman 
of  none,  a  man  of  money  and  a  woman  of 
none,  a  woman  of  beauty  and  a  man  of 
none,  a  woman  who  can  recall  to  an  aged 
man  the  lost  passions  of  his  youth,  and  you 
have  the  ladder  by  which  a  statesman  de 
scends  into  an  abyss  of  obloquy.  Of  course, 
there  is  no  fool  like  an  old  fool,  but  re 
member  a  bad  woman  is  the  Devil's  chef 
d'oeuvre. 

Monday. 

There  is  no  use  arguing  with  myself  or 
you.  I  cannot  keep  away  from  her.  I  have 
decided  to  return  to  Aiken.  Any  decision 
is  better  than  no  decision  at  all,  for  it  puts 
the  mind  at  rest.  All  my  life  I  have  suf 
fered  and  been  without  pleasure,  and  to 


196  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

suffer  is  the  best  means  to  acquire  an  appe 
tite  for  enjoyment.  To  go  without  food 
brings  an  appetite;  to  go  without  pleasure 
brings  appreciation.  Suppose  you  had 
lived  all  your  life  in  a  darkened  room, 
where  the  pupils  of  your  eyes  had  become 
abnormally  developed,  so  you  could  just 
distinguish  the  outline  of  things  sufficiently 
not  to  stumble;  then  imagine  the  room 
flooded  with  light  for  the  first  time,  so 
you  could  see  colour  and  detail  —  what  a 
Bacchanalian  revel  of  the  sense  of  sight! 
what  a  drunken  orgy  of  delight,  to  realise 
as  a  revelation  the  full  beauty  of  things 
hitherto  unseen!  She  has  been  all  this  to 
me,  and  more.  Nowadays  it  is  always  sun 
light  in  my  brain;  the  curtains  of  my  mind 
are  never  drawn.  Of  course  you  do  not 
understand  —  how  can  you?  There  is,  I 
know,  a  lost  language  to  properly  express 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  197 

the  way  I  feel,  and  I  must  needs  learn  it 
before  I  can  make  you  realise  that  a  mira 
cle  has  been  performed  —  that  I  have  been 
"  born  again." 

Washington,  Thursday. 

I  think  I  mentioned  to  you  before  that 
I  find  Fate  a  humourist  of  a  very  high 
grade.  You  can  judge  better  if  I  am  right, 
by  reading  what  follows. 

I  was  strolling  toward  the  club  Tuesday 
morning  when  who  should  I  see  striding 
toward  me  but  B.  This  time  his  smile  had 
broadened  to  a  grin,  as  he  came  toward 
me  with  outstretched  hand. 

"By  Jove,  you  here!"  he  exclaimed; 
"how  delightful!"  and  his  grin  became 
audible.  Rattling  on,  he  continued: 
"  Thought  we  would  break  the  journey 
North  by  stopping  off  here;  only  arrived 
this  morning;  are  staying  at  the  Berring- 


198  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

ton."  It  may  amuse  you  to  know  that  so 
am  I.  When  I  told  him  he  laughed  ap 
provingly,  and  said: 

"Well,  thank  Heaven  there  is  no  sand 
hereabouts.  Hope  you  have  better  rooms 
than  we  have.  Ours  are  on  the  top  floor. 
By  the  bye,  have  just  hired  an  automobile; 
come  and  take  a  drive  with  me  this  after 
noon  out  into  the  country."  I  suppose  my 
expression  changed,  for,  gazing  at  me  with 
a  sneer,  he  added:  "  Don't  look  at  me  like 
that;  one  would  think  you  were  afraid. 
Do  you  fear  me  or  the  automobile?" 

The  simple  truth  was  the  \veather  was 
the  coldest  of  the  year.  Washington  occa 
sionally  has  a  day  that  would  do  credit  to 
the  Arctic  regions,  and  I  hated  to  be  in 
his  society.  The  very  sight  of  the  man 
made  me  draw  into  my  shell  like  a  turtle 
in  the  presence  of  an  enemy.  When  he 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  199 

suggested  my  being  actuated  by  fear,  there 
was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  accept.  We 
arranged  to  start  at  three,  and  parted.  I 
felt  as  I  used  to  as  a  child,  after  making 
an  appointment  with  a  dentist.  At  three, 
in  fur  overcoats,  we  started  down  through 
Georgetown  and  out  over  the  bridge,  Ar 
lington  way.  We  were,  silent  for  some 
time.  Then  he  remarked: 

"  I  suppose  you  find  me  difficult  to  un 
derstand;  I  find  myself  so.  Don't  try;  give 
it  up,  as  I  have,  and  save  your  brain.  My 
trouble  at  present  is  that  I  have  a  sneaking 
admiration  for  you." 

We  were  just  passing  a  negro  cabin  of 
the  most  dilapidated  appearance,  when  the 
door  flew  open,  and  out  plunged  a  little 
rascal  about  five  years  old,  as  black  as 
crape.  He  tried  to  cross  in  front  of  us, 
but  was  too  late;  we  struck  him,  but  fortu- 


200  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

nately  did  not  run  over  him.  We  must 
have  knocked  him  fifteen  feet.  B.  stopped 
the  auto  so  suddenly  as  to  almost  throw 
me  out.  He  had  the  little  chap  in  his  arms 
in  a  moment,  looking  into  his  face  with  a 
most  distressed  expression,  and  repeating 
over  and  over  again,  "  Ma  pore  little  pick 
aninny,"  unconsciously  talking  "  nigger 
talk,"  but  the  little  bundle  of  rags  lay  very 
still;  at  last  he  turned  to  me,  his  face  all 
white  and  showing  tenderness  in  every  line, 
and  said,  in  a  low  voice:  "Dayton,  I  be 
lieve  I've  killed  him."  Can  you  believe  it? 
that  brute  was  looking  at  me  unashamed, 
with  a  big,  big  tear  in  either  eye.  Can  it 
be,  I  thought,  that  this  man's  one  weakness 
is  children?  —  he  has  none  of  his  own. 
The  little  one,  thank  God,  was  not  killed, 
only  stunned,  and  when  he  opened  his  eyes, 
he  put  out  his  two  little  dirty  black  hands 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  201 

and  placed  them,  with  that  confidence  that 
only  children  have,  on  B.'s  cheeks.  B.'s 
sardonic  smile  had  changed  to  a  look  a 
mother  might  have  envied.  We  carried 
him  into  the  cabin,  for  the  bitter  wind  was 
sweeping  the  earth  like  a  merciless  broom. 
We  found  the  inside  as  cold  as  the  out, 
and  the  wind  blew  playfully  through  the 
crevices,  unconscious  or  uncaring  that  its 
breath  was  death.  Before  a  fire  that  had 
been  and  was  not,  sat  two  black  men  on  the 
floor,  their  elbows  on  their  knees,  holding 
their  frozen  arms  up  before  a  paling  ember, 
each  arm  as  stiff  as  that  of  an  Indian  dev 
otee  who  had  kept  his  arm  upraised  for 
years.  They  barely  noticed  us  as  we  en 
tered;  they  were  mentally  frozen  as  well; 
theirs  was  an  Arctic  apathy.  I  glanced 
around  the  room,  not  a  chair  nor  a  table; 
everything  had  been  burned,  and  they  were 


202  A    P  A  R  I  S  H    OF    TWO 

awaiting  death  with  calm  indifference. 
Suddenly  I  heard  B.  exclaim: 

"Good  God,  man,  look  there!"  and  he 
pointed.  Turning,  I  looked  back  and  saw 
two  women  in  one  bed,  with  their  arms 
tightly  clasped  about  each  other,  gazing  at 
us  with  wide-open  eyes.  They  had  over 
them  only  one  dirty  sheet  and  three  or  four 
old  burlap  bags.  At  last  the  younger  one 
spoke,  and  said: 

"  Martha  and  I'se  in  yer  to  keep  wome, 
suh.  Ole  Abe  ober  dar  say  \ve  all  be  dead 
by  mo'ning,  but  I  doan  care;  de  Lawd's 
always  been  good  to  me."  Then  the  older 
spoke,  saying: 

"  Lucretia,  doan  you  bodder  de  gem- 
men;  dey  can't  do  us  no  good;  you  goin' 
to  have  de  Lawd's  arms  roun'  you  instead 
of  mine  mighty  soon." 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  203 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  eat  in  the  house?  " 
I  asked. 

"  No,  suh;  we  done  give  all  de  bread  dey 
was  to  little  'Rastus;  we  had  him  in  de  bed 
'tween  us  'fore  you  came,  but  he  done  hear 
a  bell  ringing  outside,  and  he  make  a  bolt 
for  de  do'." 

I  turned  and  looked  at  B.  There  he 
stood,  still  holding  little  shivering  'Rastus 
close  to  his  broad  chest,  while  the  wee  one 
pulled  his  hair  with  impunity.  The  light 
of  action  came  into  B.'s  face;  he  placed 
the  child  between  the  two  women  and 
opened  the  cabin  door.  The  wind  entered 
with  a  shriek  of  delight.  To  me  the  wind 
never  seems  to  be  chasing  anything  as  it  . 
tears  along,  but  to  be  fleeing  in  terror,  with 
piteous  screams  of  fear,  seeking  shelter 
from  the  wrath  of  gods.  Then  he  called 
to  me  and  said:  "Will  you  look  at  that 


204  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

Virginia  rail  fence  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  road,  and  these  people  freezing  to 
death!" 

Here  old  Abe  interrupted  for  the  first 
time,  saying:  "  Better  not  tech  dat  wood. 
Massa  Remsen  say  he  gwine  to  shoot  de 
fust  nigger  dat  done  tech  a  stick  of  dat 
wood."  B.  threw  him  a  look  of  contempt 
and  beckoned  to  me.  We  crossed  the  road, 
and  taking  three  of  the  largest  rails, 
brought  them  to  the  cabin  door.  B.  poked 
his  head  in  and  asked: 

"  Got  an  axe?  " 

"Yas,  suh,"  drawled  Abe. 

"  Well,  get  to  work  now  and  chop  up 
these  rails,  build  a  roaring  fire,  while  we 
go  for  food  and  things.  We  will  be  back 
in  half  an  hour."  Jumping  into  the  auto,  B. 
sent  her  along  at  her  best.  He  bought  two 
warm  gowns  for  the  women,  two  warm 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  205 

suits  for  the  men,  and  something  furry  for 
'Rastus.  He  also  purchased  flour,  bacon, 
coffee,  bread,  a  bottle  of  brandy,  and  a  tur 
key,  remarking  to  me  with  a  bright  smile 
as  he  secured  the  last:  "  Comic  papers  have 
left  me  with  the  impression  that  niggers 
like  turkeys."  He  seemed  to  be  the  domi 
nant  mind  on  this  occasion.  I  simply  did  as 
I  was  told.  We  raced  back,  having  been 
gone  forty  minutes.  Do  you  know  darkies, 
Percy?  If  so,  it  was  as  you  might  expect, 
—  the  three  rails  lay  untouched  where  we 
had  left  them.  Entering,  we  found  the 
four  just  the  same;  they  had  not  made  a 
move.  The  only  excuse  Abe  had  to  make, 
was: 

"  I'd  rather  die  dis  way  dan  be  shot,"  and 
Wash,  the  other  negro,  sagely  nodded  his 
head.  B.  pounced  on  the  axe  like  a  tiger 
on  its  prey,  and  the  chips  flew  like  sparks 


206  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

from  a  fat  wood  fire.  "  Can  you  make 
coffee?  "  he  asked  me. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  make  it." 

In  ten  minutes  we  had  a  fire  of  which  a 
backwoodsman  might  have  been  proud. 
The  water  bubbled,  the  bacon  sizzled,  and 
the  turkey  graciously  thawed.  He  gave 
each  of  the  four  a  horn  of  brandy  that 
brought  tears  to  their  eyes. 

It  was  particularly  pleasant  to  watch 
them  return  to  life.  We  turned  our  backs 
and  made  the  women  put  on  their  new 
warm  gowns.  The  two  men  calmly  put  on 
their  new  suits  over  their  old  as  if  they 
could  not  be  warm  enough.  Then  we 
waited  for  the  things  to  cook,  listening  in 
the  lulls  of  the  wind  to  the  auto  outside, 
which  was  making  that  noise  which  re 
minded  one  of  the  purring  of  a  gigantic  cat. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  207 

When  all  was  ready  we  started  to  leave,  but 
Martha  and  Lucretia's  indignation  at  this 
knew  no  bounds. 

"  You  gwine  to  eat  your  food  with  us," 
cried  Martha,  "  yas,  you  is;  you  think  us 
coloured  folks  ain't  got  no  manners,  but  we 
has." 

B.  gave  me  an  inquiring  glance.  I 
nodded;  so  down  we  all  sat  on  the  floor 
and  fell  to  with  a  will.  When  the  bones  of 
the  turkey  stood  out  unprotected  like  the 
rail  fence  that  had  done  it  to  a  turn,  and  the 
brandy  had  made  their  stomachs  as  hot  as 
the  stove  in  a  country  store,  their  tongues 
became  untied.  When  we  finally  rose  to 
go,  B.  slipped  something  into  Abe's  hand, 
muttering,  "  That  will  pay  for  the  rails," 
and  then,  yes,  and  then  he  kissed  the  sleep 
ing  'Rastus  good-bye. 


208  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

When  we  were  about  half-way  home,  B. 
turned  to  me  and  said: 

"  I'm  more  of  a  puzzle  to  you  than  ever, 
am  I  not?  Well,  I'll  give  you  one  pointer. 
I  am  descended  from  a  long  line  of  beasts 
on  my  father's  side,  and  a  long  line  of 
angels  on  my  mother's.  When  the  bad  side 
is  up,  it  is  as  if  the  good  side  never  existed, 
and  vice  versa." 

I  was  filled  throughout  the  whole  day 
with  a  sickening  fear  that,  situated  as  I  am 
with  his  wife,  I  might  learn  to  like  this 
man.  Explain  him  to  me  if  you  can. 

The  Ley  land,  Friday. 
You  see  I  have  changed  my  hotel  —  per 
haps  you  think  I  ran  away  from  the  B.'s, 
but  you  are  wrong.  The  Berrington  disap 
peared  in  a  blaze  of  glory  last  night.  It  is 
now  a  pile  of  ashes  and  well-baked  bricks, 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  209 

larded  with  iron  pipes  that  are  now  as 
crooked  as  they  once  were  straight.  When 
I  left  the  place  to-day,  the  boiler  was 
standing  on  end  in  the  middle  of  the  debris, 
like  Marius  surveying  the  ruins  of  Car 
thage.  On  its  upper  end  rested  most  co- 
quettishly  a  white  porcelain  bath-tub.  It 
looked  like  a  mammoth  old  lady  in 
mourning,  wearing  a  white  poke  bonnet. 
As  I  seem  to  have  acquired  the  habit  of 
telling  you  everything,  I  suppose  you  will 
expect  me  to  describe  this,  my  last  experi 
ence. 

Thursday  night,  I  was  awakened  in  my 
room  on  the  second  floor  by  the  most  in 
fernal  racket;  every  one  seemed  knocking 
on  everybody's  door.  As  I  turned  over 
in  my  bed  I  remember  muttering,  "  There 
must  be  about  four  hundred  people  catch 
ing  the  early  train.  Reminds  me  of  Spain, 


210  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

where  the  trains  all  leave  at  four  in  the 
morning."  There  came  a  bang  on  my 
door  that  made  me  sit  up  as  if  some  one 
had  stuck  a  knife  into  my  vitals;  in  a 
moment  I  had  the  door  open.  There  stood 
a  coloured  hall-boy,  his  complexion  a  sort 
of  pepper  and  salt,  with  the  white  getting 
the  better  of  the  black.  He  yelled  the  word 
"  Fire  "  as  loud  as  would  a  captain  of  in 
fantry  two  hundred  yards  ahead  of  his 
troops.  "  Don't  stop  to  get  anything,  but 
skip."  The  noise  outside  now  became  deaf 
ening.  Every  one  was  yelling  at  the  top  of 
his  voice.  "Where's  Julia?"  "  Has  Ed 
ward  gone  down?"  A  man  with  one  leg 
was  calling  pitiably,  "  For  God's  sake,  help 
me,  I'm  lame,"  and  all  the  time  he  was 
making  giant  hops  down  the  hall  on  his 
good  leg  that  would  have  distanced  a 
sprinter.  I  have  never  seen  so  many  pa- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  211 

jamas  and  night-dresses  together  before. 
The  smoke,  like  a  pall  studded  with  rubies, 
lay  over  all,  and  in  the  distance  could  be 
heard  the  cracking  of  the  advancing  flames. 
On  with  my  slippers  and  down  the  stairs 
I  rushed;  the  balustrades  were  burning 
briskly  and  the  smell  of  varnish  was  pun 
gent.  Out  of  the  front  door  I  plunged,  then 
back  as  quickly;  the  vision  of  a  certain  face 
had  come  between  me  and  safety.  I  flew 
back  to  the  hotel  office ;  the  clerk  was  empty 
ing  the  safe  of  money  and  papers. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  B.'s?  "  I  asked.  He 
"  reckoned  "  not.  They  might  have  gone 
out  and  they  might  not.  If  they  had  not 
already,  it  was  too  late,  as  the  fire  broke 
out  on  the  fifth  floor  and  they  were  on  the 
tenth.  The  fifth  floor  was  just  hell.  The 
number  of  their  rooms?  Oh,  yes,  404,  406, 
408.  His  indifference  maddened  me.  If 


212  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

I  ever  see  him  again  I'll  brighten  him  up 
generally.  What  was  I  to  do,  with  the  way 
to  the  tenth  floor  impassable?  An  inspira 
tion,  —  the  elevator,  —  I  found  it  deserted ; 
the  boy  had  left  his  post.  I  jumped  in; 
would  it  work,  that  was  the  question,  would 
it  work?  As  I  pulled  the  wire  rope  and 
gently  ascended  I  gave  one  war-whoop  of 
delight.  I  could  hardly  see  the  numbers  on 
the  doors,  the  smoke  was  so  dense.  I  found 
the  B.'s  in  the  outer  room  facing  the  street, 
both  unconscious  on  the  floor.  They  had 
evidently  tried  to  raise  the  window  and 
failed.  I  threw  open  the  window  and 
dragged  him  to  it,  resting  his  head  upon  the 
sill ;  the  bitter  wind  blew  in  on  him  fiercely. 
I  tore  a  blanket  from  the  bed  in  the  next 
room,  soused  it  in  the  bath-tub,  and  wrap 
ping  her  in  it,  carried  her  to  the  elevator. 
Thank  God,  it  was  still  there;  down  we 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  213 

went  in  safety  and  out  of  that  furnace  into 
the  street.  I  placed  her  in  the  arms  of  a 
fireman,  and  turned  and  gazed  up  at  the 
doomed  building.  Should  I  go  back  for 
him?  Yes.  Should  I  go  back  for  him? 
No.  Should  I  tell  a  fireman?  Yes.  Should 
I  tell  a  fireman?  No.  Never  did  I  hate 
him  as  I  did  then.  I  turned  to  look  for  her. 
They  had  taken  her  away,  probably  to  some 
neighbour's  house.  I  made  my  way  through 
the  crowd  and  walked  along  the  street.  I 
walked  fast;  I  must  get  away  from  the 
picture  of  him  helpless,  with  his  head  rest 
ing  on  the  sill. 

He  had  no  right  to  live,  the  world 
would  be  better  for  his  death.  I  was  doing 
the  world  a  kindness.  I  was  bringing  to  her 
a  blessing  she  would  thank  me  for.  He 
would  never  try  to  strike  her  again. 
Damn  him!  I  walked  faster,  but  the  pic- 


214  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

ture  kept  pace.  Suddenly  God  laid  His 
hand  upon  my  shoulder  and  I  turned  and 
ran  —  ran  as  I  never  ran  before,  back,  back 
to  the  hotel,  back  to  the  room  where  he  lay 
awaiting  me,  and  only  me,  for  no  one  else 
should  save  him.  Once  more  I  plunged 
through  the  crowd,  dodging  two  firemen 
who  tried  to  stop  me.  The  elevator  would 
still  run.  I  gave  another  yell  of  delight  as 
it  mounted,  but  my  breath  scorched  me. 
Whatsoever  I  touched  blistered  my  hands. 
I  found  him  on  his  hands  and  knees  just 
returning  to  consciousness;  trying  to  raise 
himself.  I  helped  him;  for  a  moment  he 
stood  dazed,  then  the  light  broke  into  his 
mind  as  it  does  into  a  darkened  room  when 
the  shutters  are  thrown  open.  "  Come  this 
instant,"  I  cried.  "  We  have  not  a  mo 
ment  to  lose."  Just  then  we  heard  a  tre 
mendous  crash  that  shook  the  tottering 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  215 

walls  of  the  whole  house.  Oh,  yes !  I  knew 
what  had  happened,  the  elevator  had 
dropped  to  the  bottom  of  the  well;  some 
thing  had  burned  out  and  it  had  fallen.  I 
rushed  to  see  and  found  it  so.  I  could 
hardly  find  my  way  back  through  smoke. 
When  I  entered  and  closed  the  door  he  was 
standing  with  his  hands  behind  his  back  in 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

"Elevator  gone?"  he  inquired,  with 
seeming  indifference. 

"  Yes." 

"  Prisoners  here?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Death?" 

"  Certain,"  I  answered. 

"  Well,"  he  continued,  "  I'm  rather  curi 
ous  to  see  how  you  will  take  it.  How  do 
you  propose  to  be  cooked,  roasted  or 


216  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

broiled?  You're  a  very  dry  man,  I  think 
you'll  need  a  sauce." 

I  did  not  answer,  but  went  to  the  window 
and  looked  down;  out  of  every  window  be 
low  us  burst  those  vanishing  but  recurrent 
lances  of  flame.  When  the  crowd  saw  me, 
a  mighty  roar  went  up ;  every  hand  was  up 
raised  and  pointing.  It  looked  as  if  some 
one  were  taking  the  ayes  and  noes  of  a 
mighty  congress. 

"  Don't  jump,"  some  one  bawled;  "  lad 
ders  are  coming." 

"  Don't  jump!  "  snarled  B.  "  The  idiot! 
what  does  he  think  we  are,  parachutes?" 

I  looked  down  again;  some  were  fixing 
the  ladders,  but  I  knew  the  time  was  too 
short  for  us  to  be  saved,  and  some  were  ar 
ranging  an  additional  hose.  A  woman 
stepped  forward  to  get  a  better  view  and 
stepped  on  the  hose  near  a  small  rent;  the 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  217 

pressure  from  the  hydrant  was  turned  on 
suddenly,  the  rent  gaped  and  the  water  in 
flated  her  frock  so  that  for  a  moment  she 
looked  like  an  old-fashioned  pincushion  of 
the  days  when  crinolines  were  the  mode. 
The  crowd  went  into  convulsions  of  laugh 
ter.  The  woman  disappeared  and  a  little 
boy  ran  forward  and  slaked  an  imaginary 
thirst  from  the  escaping  water.  I  turned 
to  B.  again.  He  was  groping  through  the 
smoke  for  something.  He  came  toward  me 
with  his  cigarette-case  in  his  hand  and  some 
matches. 

"  Funny,"  he  remarked.  "  I  never  can 
find  a  match  when  I  need  one,  and  now  that 
I  am  almost  surrounded  by  fire  they  are  the 
first  things  I  put  my  hand  on.  Have  a 
puff?"  I  took  one;  I  proposed  also  to  be 
as  cool  as  the  circumstances  would  permit. 
With  a  little  laugh  he  said: 


218  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

"  Dayton,  we  had  rather  a  cold  afternoon, 
but  the  night  is  very  compensating;  it  is  be 
coming  noticeably  warmer,  at  least  where 
we  are.  Do  you  know,  I  left  instructions 
in  my  will  to  be  cremated.  Slightly  unneces 
sary,  don't  you  think  so?" 

Then  he  solemnly  puffed  for  a  moment  or 
two,  or  I  judged  he  did,  by  the  movement 
of  his  mouth,  for  notwithstanding  the  open 
window  and  the  gale  of  wind,  it  was  im 
possible  to  differentiate  his  smoke  from  the 
hotel's. 

Then  he  continued,  in  a  calm  voice: 

"  I  read  the  other  day  of  a  man  who  had 
been  cremated  with  the  bullet  in  his  body 
that  had  caused  his  death,  and  after  this 
preliminary  hell  on  earth,  they  found  the 
little  bit  of  lead  outweighed  all  his  ashes. 
God,  Dayton!  it  won't  be  long  before  we 
will  be  as  light  as  thistle-down  and  a  part 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  219 

of  the  air  other  people  breathe.  Whereas 
burial  means  a  little  mouth  with  straight 
lips  cut  in  the  face  of  the  earth,  where  you 
are  reverently  placed  and  the  earth  swal 
lows  you  down.  That's  all."  Another 
silence,  then  he  added: 

"  So  you  saved  my  wife  first  and  then 
came  back  for  me?  Well,  Dayton,  my  boy, 
doubtless  you  are  a  worthy  gentleman,  but 
you  are  a  damned  fool,  all  the  same." 

Somehow  his  flippancy  sickened  me.  I 
was  no  more  afraid  than  he,  but  to  my  mind 
it  was  no  time  to  pose.  However,  men  die 
differently. 

Again  I  went  to  the  window.  This  time 
I  looked  up.  Could  I  reach  the  gutter  that 
ran  around  the  eaves  of  the  house?  I  stood 
on  the  window-sill.  Yes,  if  I  dared  jump 
up  about  six  inches ;  if  I  missed, — well,  then 
what  the  newspapers  call  "  a  dull,  sickening 


220  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

thud  "  and  my  worries  over.  I  tried  it,  B. 
looking  on  with  an  effort  at  an  uninterested 
expression,  but  I  saw  the  light  of  hope  in 
his  eyes.  I  jumped  and  caught  the  gutter 
with  the  palms  of  my  hands  turned  in.  Then 
slowly  I  began  to  curl  my  body  upward.  I 
heard  the  crowd  give  one  tremendous  yell 
as  they  saw  me  make  the  effort,  then  abso 
lute  silence  as  they  watched,  but  /  saw  noth 
ing  but  the  vision  of  her  face.  I  got  about 
three-quarters  of  the  way,  but  my  stomach 
muscles  were  not  strong  enough;  slowly 
my  legs  dropped  till  they  were  straight 
again.  I  had  failed.  Then  I  heard  B.'s 
voice.  I  could  not  turn  my  head  to  see,  but 
I  knew  he  must  be  standing  on  the  sill. 

"  Try  again,"  he  called.  "  I'll  give  you 
a  shove."  Slowly  once  more  I  curled  up, 
and  when  I  was  almost  upside  down  I  felt 
my  head  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  and  with 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  221 

a  mighty  push  I  was  on  my  belly  on  the  roof. 
Keeping  the  same  position,  I  told  him  to  try. 
He  did,  and  reached  the  same  point  I  had, 
and  failed,  but  I  was  ready  for  him;  his  leg 
came  within  reach;  I  grabbed  it,  and  with 
a  pull  equal  to  his  push  we  were  side  by  side. 

We  slid  back  until  we  could  stand  in 
safety,  but  the  roof  was  hot  and  burned  our 
feet.  We  made  our  way  to  the  house  next 
to  us,  which  was  an  office-building  almost 
as  tall  as  the  hotel;  we  had  to  drop  over 
eighteen  feet,  but  we  dropped  into  safety. 

As  we  sat  on  the  scuttle  of  the  adjoining 
house  and  waited  and  shivered,  he  said : 

"  Rather  a  happy  thought  of  yours,  Day 
ton."  As  he  spoke,  a  fireman's  head  ap 
peared  over  the  edge  of  the  roof,  and  we 
were  saved. 

I  am  writing  you  at  this  great  length,  as 
I  can't  go  out  —  I  have  no  clothes. 


222  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

It  is  all  over  now  and  I  could  laugh  if  it 
were  not  for  one  thing.  I  walked  away, 
Percy,  and  left  him  to  die.  I  walked  away. 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  forget  that  fact.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  God's  quick  thoughtful- 
ness,  I  should  have  been  lost. 

Percy,  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  — 
soft.  It  is  nothing  but  sliding  down  a 
greased  hill  with  accruing  filth. 

Yours, 
DOUGLAS. 


Boston,  Mass. 

MY  DEAR  DOUGLAS:  — 

I  have  your  long  letter.  It  is  an  exciting 
journal.  It  has  been  a  habit  of  mine  to  say 
that  any  man  who  would  write  truthfully 
of  his  own  life  could  not  help  producing 
a  distinguished  piece  of  literature.  Those 
princes  of  epigram,  the  French,  say  that 
metaphysics  is  I' art  de  s'egarer  avec  raison. 
Most  autobiography  is  merely  the  art  of 
making  oneself  distinguished  without 
valour.  Your  letters  to  me  are  of  the  qual 
ity  that  would  make  good  autobiography. 
The  Fates  seem  to  have  you  in  leash,  and  to 
be  leading  you,  and  letting  you  go,  and 

bringing  you  back  again,   in   a  way  that 

223 


224  APARISHOFTWO 

makes  me  think  I  am  reading  one  of  those 
epicene  Dumas  efforts  of  the  day,  where 
effeminate  Athos,  Porthos,  Aramis,  and 
D'Artagnan  strut  about,  poor  milk-and- 
water  substitutes  for  the  fiery  brandy  of 
their  originals.  But  in  your  case  it  is  true! 
You  have  been  "skinning  the  cat"  from 
the  projecting  gutters  of  high  buildings  on 
fire;  you  have  been  tempted  of  the  Devil  to 
let  your  enemy  burn  to  death  (I  don't  think 
I  could  have  stomached  that.  If  you  had 
not  gone  back  to  that  poor  devil,  I  fear  I 
should  have  distrusted  you  forever.)  You 
have  been  rescuing  the  unfortunate,  and 
discovering  at  the  same  time  how  inscrut 
able  are  the  ways  of  men,  as  instanced  by  the 
man  who  lifts  his  hand  to  strike  his  wife 
one  day,  and  weeps  over  an  injured  "  nig 
ger  "  baby  the  next.  Would  that  we  might 
remember  that  we  never  know  all  of  any 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  225 

man,  no  matter  how  insignificant,  we  who 
judge  one  another  with  the  precision, 
cruelty,  and  carelessness  of  men  who  deem 
themselves  endowed  with  omniscience. 

You  ask  me  what  I  think  of  this  man. 
Tell  it  not  in  Gath,  but  I  have  a  sneaking 
fondness  for  the  man  who  went  feeling 
about  for  his  cigarette-case,  when  the  house 
was  on  fire.  It  reminds  me  of  the  great 
Frederick,  who  said  to  some  of  his  soldiers 
who  hesitated  to  obey  his  order  to  attack 
on  some  particularly  hazardous  occasion: 
"  What,  do  you  fellows  want  to  live  for 
ever  !  "  In  most  countries  to-day,  life  is  the 
most  absurdly  overrated  commodity  in  the 
market.  Anything  rather  than  death,  rather 
than  suffering,  rather  than  hardship  even! 
We  have  become  so  sentimental  that  we 
not  only  coddle  ourselves,  but  we  coddle 
criminals,  the  insane,  the  diseased,  the  per- 


226  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

verted.  We  are  moving  toward  that  ideal 
civilisation  where  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  will  be  provided  with  an  armour  of 
cotton-batting  at  the  expense  of  the  state. 
No  more  war,  no  more  pugilism,  no  more 
feats  of  endurance,  no  more  football,  no 
more  shooting  of  game,  is  the  cry!  The 
only  permissible  struggle  is  that  between 
men  armed  with  stocks  and  bonds,  and 
equipped  with  coolness,  impudence,  and 
lack  of  moral  sense.  To  rob  a  whole  com 
munity  of  men  of  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  dollars  is  acknowledged  to  be  a  noble 
form  of  human  endeavour,  but  to  knock  a 
man  down  in  order  to  steal  a  loaf  for  a 
starving  child  is  to  open  the  gates  of  the 
penitentiary.  The  pretty  young  woman 
who  tires  of  her  husband  takes  a  train  for 
the  divorce-court,  and  the  husband  may  stay 
behind  and  bite  his  finger-nails,  instead  of 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  227 

being  permitted  to  lock  her  up  in  a  closet 
on  bread  and  water  until  she  comes  to  her 
senses.  We  have  an  exaggerated  notion  of 
the  perversity  of  the  man  who  beats  his  wife, 
but  may  it  not  be  true  that  here  and  there 
is  a  wife  for  whom  a  sound  spanking  were 
not  too  harsh  a  punishment?  You  know, 
after  all,  some  women  are  fools  even  after 
they  are  married,  as  are  many  men! 

This  Mr.  B.  of  yours  may  have  a  story  to 
tell,  who  knows?  I  have  noticed  that  it  not 
infrequently  happens  that  the  hero  who 
marries  the  much-abused-by-a-previous- 
husband  heroine  finds  to  his  cost  that  his 
predecessor  is  often  excused  by  his  own  ex 
perience.  You  see  I  am  a  little  inclined  to 
take  a  brief  for  the  chap  who  lights  a  cigar 
ette,  jumps  out  of  a  ten-story  window, 
catches  the  gutter  and  skins  the  cat  on  the 
roof,  and  lives  to  fight  another  day.  Of 


228  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

course,  by  the  way, I  expect  you  to  do  these 
things.  Thus  do  we  always  minimise  the 
goodness,  or  the  greatness,  or  the  courage 
of  those  we  love!  Such  an  one  must  have 
a  little  of  the  essence  of  devilry  in  him  that 
makes  this  slow  and  timid  old  world  go 
round.  Don't  you  think  so  yourself?  That 
kind  of  a  man  is  probably  ready  to  have 
another  round  with  the  world,  no  matter 
what  punches  he  has  had  in  former  battles, 
and  he  is  always  a  dangerous  man  to  bet 
against.  Of  course  I  am  not  writing  about 
your  particular  Mr.  B.  I  do  not  know  him. 
I  do  not  know  his  wife.  I  never  shall  know, 
or  see,  either  of  them,  this  side  of  a  miracle. 
But  you  seem  to  be  cudgelling  him  fre 
quently  and  heavily,  and  I  only  see  your 
letters.  I  never  see  his!  I  never  see  him! 
I  never  see  her!  I  am  not  one  of  those 
who  willingly  excuse  the  soft  luxurious 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  229 

flow  of  every  idle  passion.  Why  should 
not  a  woman  stand  by  her  plighted  troth 
whether  she  likes  it  or  not,  and  a  man  like 
wise?  It  seems  to  me  always,  when  questions 
of  this  kind  are  brought  to  my  notice,  that 
the  root  of  the  trouble  is  never  so  much  as 
touched  upon.  Marriage  is  not  of  divine 
origin,  and  parson  though  I  be,  I  could  not, 
without  blushing,  maintain  such  an  ex 
ploded  theory.  As  soon  as  you  make  mar 
riage  a  sacrament  you  presuppose  a  state 
church,  or  at  any  rate,  an  institution  with 
divine  rights  and  with  legal  powers  superior 
to  those  of  the  state,  and  we  washed  out  that 
theory,  that  scheme  of  things,  in  blood  long 
ago.  But  when  a  man  gives  his  word  of 
honour  to  a  woman  to  protect  her  and  not 
to  run  away  from  her,  or  when  a  woman 
pledges  herself  to  keep  herself  for  one  man, 
and  to  stand  by  him  come  what  may,  then 


230  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

when  either  one  or  the  other  breaks  the  con 
tract,  the  divine  thing,  the  truth,  the  honour, 
the  very  key  to  stability  of  character,  are 
made  as  nothing.  Nobody  would  maintain, 
I  take  it,  that  when  one  party  to  a  contract 
breaks  the  contract,  the  other  party  is 
held  and  bound  as  before.  To  me  that 
is  the  awful  thing  about  all  these  questions 
between  men  and  women.  The  weakness 
of  character,  the  lack  of  hang-on-edness,  the 
wateriness  of  the  moral  muscles  behind 
these  breaks  and  betrayals,  these  are  the 
serious  features.  Hence  it  is  that  the  mak 
ing  of  laws  on  the  subject  is  idle.  What 
such  men  and  women  must  have  is  a  new 
form  of  moral  oatmeal  to  eat,  some  new 
spiritual  tonic  to  take.  The  newspaper  no 
toriety,  the  preaching  of  your  fancy  city 
clerics,  the  exaggerated  accounts  on  all  sides, 
these  avail  nothing.  Such  troubles  are  only 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  231 

one  of  many  indications  of  a  general  moral 
weakness.  You  may  see  other  symptoms  of 
the  same  disease  at  the  opera  any  night;  you 
may  see  it  in  Wall  Street  or  State  Street  any 
day  between  ten  and  three;  you  may  see  it 
in  the  ill-mannered,  uncontrolled  children 
of  flabby  parents. 

We  know  and  associate  with  men  who, 
they  or  their  fathers,  have  come  by  their 
money  by  downright  thievery,  only  it  goes 
by  another  name.  Our  wives  and  daugh 
ters  are  often  in  the  company  of  men,  if 
they  go  about  much,  whom  we  know  to 
be  dissolute,  and  in  not  a  few  instances 
downright  depraved.  All  this  points  to 
the  same  thing,  which  is  the  natural  ten 
dency  of  every  rich  society  to  make  and 
keep  life  soft  and  easy;  and  what  a  soft  and 
easy  life  portends,  what  it  results  in,  is  writ 
large  over  the  history  of  every  ancient  civili- 


232  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

sation.  That's  the  reason,  I  say,  I  like  a 
little  war,  a  little  pugilism,  a  little  football, 
a  little  roughing  of  it  for  men.  No  danger 
that  they  will  be  too  hard,  too  rough,  too 
ungentle.  The  danger  to  us  all  of  the  better 
classes  is,  that  we  shall  prove  too  soft,  too 
smooth,  too  mild.  That  is  the  reason  I  hate 
to  think  of  you  as  entangled  in  one  of  these 
cushioned  intrigues.  There  is  nothing 
brave  or  virile  about  it.  If  you  galloped 
off  with  the  lady  at  your  saddle-bow,  with 
bullets  following  and  sabres  clanking  be 
hind,  there  would  be  some  risk,  some  back 
bone  there.  But  the  only  thing  you  have  to 
fear  is  the  divorce-court,  and  what  a  poor 
effeminate  beast  is  that!  It  is  not  even  as 
though  you  had  done  anything  to  earn  this 
woman.  You  have  not  worked  for  her, 
won  anything  for  her,  sought  the  Holy 
Grail  for  her.  You  and  she  have  just 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  233 

dropped  into  osculatory  intimacy  just  out 
of  sheer  softness.  What  are  you  propos 
ing  to  do  in  case  you  get  her?  Will  you 
make  a  fortune  for  her,  will  you  make  a 
name  for  her,  will  you  really  deserve  her 
and  show  the  world  that  you  did  deserve 
her,  or,  after  the  customary  lunar  space  of 
soft  dalliance,  will  you  both  stare  and  won 
der  why  you  wanted  one  another  at  all? 

This  is  the  kind  of  a  letter,  perhaps,  that 
tends  to  make  a  man  angry,  the  kind  that 
makes  a  breach  in  the  oldest  friendship,  but 
it  is  not  to  be  so  between  us.  Poor  me,  I 
am  preaching  a  doctrine  of  courage  to  you, 
my  small  parish,  with  no  hope  of  ever  be 
ing  able  to  exhibit  any  courage  of  a  physical 
kind.  You  are  bound  to  pity  me.  You  are 
bound  to  feel  that  I  am  so  little  a  man 
physically  now,  that  these  letters  of  mine  to 
you  are  almost  impersonal. 


234  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

May  I  break  in  here  to  tell  you  that  I 
have  quite  lost  the  use  of  my  legs  now; 
they  merely  dangle  from  my  trunk?  I 
am  a  baby,  and  I  can  see  from  the  kind 
liness,  the  exaggerated  gentleness  of  those 
who  are  about  me,  and  of  those  who  come 
to  me,  that  they  have  heard  that  the  image 
of  death  is  behind  me,  and  becoming  more 
and  more  visible  each  week,  perhaps  each 
day,  for  aught  I  know.  Now,  my  dear 
Douglas,  a  man  like  that  has  no  vanities 
to  guard,  he  has  no  prejudices  to  fight 
for,  he  has  no  enemies  to  punish.  So  far 
as  a  man  can  be,  he  is  set  apart  from  life 
and  feels  it  as  though  it  were  the  stream 
slipping  away  with  the  boat  of  his  life  to  a 
harbour  that  he  can  almost  see.  Why,  then, 
should  I  say  the  smallest  word  to  offend 
you?  How  can  you  imagine  me  as  other 
than  embodied  friendship,  or  as  a  poor 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  235 

parson  struggling  with  the  problems  of  his 
last  parish? 

Pardon  that  much  even  about  myself,  and 
let  me  bid  you  read  what  I  have  written  to 
you  here  and  in  other  of  my  letters  care 
fully.  I  have  no  word  of  blame  for  the  man 
who  dares  it  all,  who  shouts  alea  jacta  est 
and  peers  at  the  dice  unafraid,  to  see 
whether  he  has  won  or  lost.  If  you  know 
what  you  want,  believe  you  have  a  right 
to  take  it,  trust  yourself  to  deserve  it  once 
you  have  it  and  are  willing  to  fight  the 
battle  through,  come  what  may,  why,  then, 
mind  you,  my  dear  Douglas,  I  shall  stand 
by  until  my  frail  skiff  drifts  out  to  sea  for 
good.  There  is  moral  stamina  in  that  way 
of  facing  the  world,  even  though  a  man  be 
wrong.  For  even  all  our  ethical  standards 
are  man-made.  What  is  right  in  Boston 


236  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

is  not  right  in  Bulgaria;  what  is  right  in 
Seringapatam  is  wrong  in  West  Braintree. 

Now,  if  you  are  big  enough  and  brave 
enough  to  make  your  own  right  and  wrong, 
you  will  find  that  the  world  will  acknowl 
edge  you  as  one  of  its  lawmakers.  Alex 
ander  did  it,  Caesar  did  it,  Napoleon  did  it, 
Frederick  the  Great,  Cromwell,  Lincoln, 
Paul  Jones,  Catherine  of  Russia  did  it,  — 
men  and  women  without  number  have  done 
it,  and  more  will  do  it.  Such  personalities 
are  the  world's  medicines.  The  world,  the 
soft,  luxurious,  conservative,  fearful,  calf- 
like  part  of  it,  at  least,  shrinks  from  taking 
these  bitter  draughts  at  first,  but  takes  them 
at  last  because  it  finds  it  must  do  so  to 
keep  in  health.  Justinian  and  Napoleon 
even  take  the  whole  body  of  laws  by  which 
men  live  and  codify  them. 

Luther,  with  his  hammer,  and  Erasmus, 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  237 

with  his  rapier,  upset  and  chase  out  of  court 
the  most  powerful  spiritual  autocracy  the 
world  ever  saw.  The  Wesleys  and  White- 
field  make  the  great  State  Church  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  race  ashamed,  and  the  day  is 
not  far  off  when  our  coddled  clergy  and 
effeminate  ministries  will  be  swept  into  the 
sea  by  some  band  of  consecrated  men  who 
dare  to  believe  something,  and  who  will  sac 
rifice  themselves  to  do  something  hard. 
This  sentimental  nonsense  in  the  church,  in 
morals,  in  philanthropy,  about  hurting  peo 
ple's  feelings,  hurting  people's  bodies,  — 
this  whole  philosophy  of  pampering,  which 
is  the  very  body  of  death,  will  go.  You 
know  and  I  know,  in  our  heart  of  hearts, 
that  men  who  really  mean  business,  no  mat 
ter  what  their  task  or  profession,  think  little 
of  wages  and  salaries,  eating  and  drinking, 
and  society  and  the  modern  bugaboo  of 


238  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

exercise.  When  a  painter  has  a  picture  in 
his  brain,  or  a  poet  a  poem,  when  a  Savon 
arola  has  a  principle  to  fight  for,  or  an  en 
gineer  a  bridge  to  build,  or  an  Edison  a 
problem  to  work  out,  or  a  lover  a  real  love 
in  his  heart,  he  is  glorified,  and  recks  not 
of  eating  and  drinking,  thinks  not  of  the 
soft  things  of  life;  he  becomes  the  happy 
warrior  who  does,  and  dares,  and  dies  if 
necessary. 

If  this  is  what  you  stand  for,  I  am  with 
you!  I  lay  aside  any  right  or  any  desire 
to  judge  you  from  a  professional  stand 
point.  I  waive  the  point  of  what  the  world 
may  say,  of  what  the  world  holds  to  be  right 
even,  and  I  bid  you  Godspeed  if  you  are  a 
king,  ready  for  the  consequences  and  re 
sponsibilities  of  a  king  who  is  about  to  carve 
out  a  kingdom  for  himself.  You  see  I  have 
a  weakness  for  a  real  man,  and  have  only 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  239 

contempt  for  an  amorous  baby.  You  see, 
too,  that  I  am  not  criticising,  I  am  not  pass 
ing  judgment;  I  am  leaving  it  all  to  you 
to  decide.  If  you  are  dead  in  earnest,  ready 
to  risk  everything,  and  you  will  risk  every 
thing,  and  then,  above  all,  ready  to  bear 
your  burden,  and  to  take  your  knocks,  and 
to  shoulder  your  way  through  the  crowd 
again  with  a  bright  eye,  a  cheerful  smile, 
and  a  glad  heart,  then  you  are  one  of  God's 
own  children,  with  whom  I  have  no  business 
to  interfere.  He  will  take  care  of  His  own. 
You  wrote  in  one  of  your  letters  that  I 
trusted  my  own  judgment;  you  intimated 
that  I  had  no  moments  of  hesitation  in  my 
moral  or  spiritual  life.  I  need  not  say  that 
is  not  altogether  true.  I  am  as  weak  as  other 
men.  But  of  a  man's  right  to  his  own  life, 
his  own  beliefs,  his  own  God,  of  a  man's 
right  to  be  captain  of  his  own  soul,  I  have 


240  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

no  shade  of  a  shadow  of  a  doubt.  Few  men 
dare  accept  such  responsibilities;  that's  all 
I  meant.  But  for  the  men  who  do,  whether 
I  agree  with  them  or  not,  I  have  the  most 
profound  admiration.  I  deem  them  to  be 
the  salt  of  the  earth;  they  give  life  its  sa 
vour,  make  it  taste  good,  and  I  will  have 
no  words  with  such  men. 

I  would  not  have  you  think,  in  spite  of  all 
this,  that  I  am  not  distressed  by  this  last 
chapter  of  your  life.  If  I  were  writing  or 
talking  to  the  woman,  rather  than  to  the 
man,  in  this  particular  case,  I  should  not 
take  the  attitude  I  have  taken  writh  you.  No 
woman  has  any  right,  unless  she  be  one  of 
those  great  Amazons,  of  which  there  are 
only  a  few  in  each  century,  to  undertake  a 
battle  with  the  world.  Unlike  the  man,  she 
merely  grasps  at  her  new  pleasure,  and, 
getting  it,  loads  it  upon  the  back  of  him 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  241 

she  loves,  and  leaves  him  to  carry  the  whole 
burden.  It  must  be  so.  Her  heroism  is  not 
in  taking  up  the  burden,  in  swinging  the 
sword,  in  defying  the  world,  —  her  heroism 
must  lie  in  giving  up  what  she  longs  for, 
in  pushing  from  her  the  passion,  though 
it  be  as  dear  to  her  as  to  him,  in  saving  the 
man  from  his  own  madness.  It  is  as  though 
one  human  being  should  consent  to  some 
perilous  adventure,  knowing  that  the  part 
ner  in  the  affair  must  carry  it  through.  Yes, 
I  will  go  with  you,  says  the  maiden  to  the 
youth.  They  push  off  in  their  small  boat, 
and  it  is  he,  not  she,  who  must  steer,  must 
trim  the  sail,  must  meet  the  seas  as  they  curl 
above  him,  and  beat  down  upon  him,  and 
blind  him  with  their  spray.  She  merely 
loves  him,  but  he  must  love  her  and  shelter 
her,  and  have  one  arm  ever  ready  for  her, 
while  at  the  same  time  he  battles  for  his 


242  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

life.  She  must  be  a  goddess,  indeed,  who 
will  ask  this  of  any  man,  or  permit  any  man, 
no  matter  how  fierce  his  passion,  how  en 
thusiastic  his  willingness,  to  sweep  her  away 
upon  such  a  terrible  journey. 

There  is,  they  tell  me  nowadays,  a  means 
of  measuring  the  waves  of  light,  of  meas 
uring  the  very  act  of  thinking,  of  measur 
ing  even  a  man's  nervousness,  but,  my  dear 
boy,  until  there  is  a  machine  to  measure  the 
duration  of  love,  of  passion,  of  this  fever 
of  desire  of  man  for  woman,  of  woman  for 
man,  any  such  undertaking  as  yours  is,  of 
all  things,  the  most  problematical.  No 
matter  how  godlike  the  man,  no  matter 
how  angel-like  the  woman,  what  you  want 
changes  its  raiment  when  it  becomes  what 
you  have.  Then  comes  the  test,  the  strain. 
Then  the  woman  knows  the  man  as  he 
knows  himself,  and  the  man  knows  the 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  243 

woman,  as  man  may  know  woman,  and,  if 
there  be  nothing  solid,  if  there  be  none  of 
the  strong,  dependable  traits  of  character, 
not  your  mere  kissable  things,  but  things 
to  eat,  to  nourish,  to  strengthen,  to  respect, 
then  comes  satiety  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 
I  beg  that  you  will  not  think  me  hard  or 
cold,  a  mere  calculator  of  chances  when  so 
much  is  at  stake.  I  know  you  might  as  well 
expect  to  pick  up  the  Iliad,  after  throw 
ing  the  letters  of  the  Greek  alphabet  upon 
the  floor,  as  to  see  the  end  that  will  result 
from  these  complications.  But  I  am  right 
ing  myself  to  help  you.  I  am  trying  my 
best  to  guide  you  and  to  speak  to  you,  not 
as  I  think  you  wish  to  be  spoken  to,  not  as 
habit  or  custom  or  even  the  ethical  princi 
ples  of  the  day  suggest,  but  as  an  honest  man 
would  speak  to  him  he  loves,  and  for  whom 
he  would  be  wise  and  merciful,  even  as  is 


244  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

the  great  Judge  of  all.  I  am  weary  these 
days;  the  sensations  of  life  are  not  for  me; 
surely  mine  is  the  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye,  if 
such  a  harvest  there  be,  and  I  grow  less  sure 
that  right  is  always  what  men  say  it  is,  or 
that  wrong  is  always  what  we  call  wrong. 
I  only  know  that  it  cannot  be  false  in  me 
to  bid  you  be  a  man,  —  a  man  who  can 
throw  back  his  head  and  put  up  his  face 
to  heaven  and  look  God  in  the  eye. 

I  shall  hope  to  hear  from  you  soon  again. 
You  must  read  what  I  have  written,  though 
here  and  there  it  be  harsh,  or  even  con 
temptuous,  to  one  or  both  of  you  people, 
feeling  my  arm  over  your  shoulder. 

Yours, 
PERCY  DASHIEL. 


EIGHTEENTH    LETTER 

Washington,  D.  C. 

DEAR  PERCY:  — 

You  tell  me  to  read  your  letters  carefully, 
to  learn  and  inwardly  digest.  I  do,  all  but 
the  last;  I  cannot  digest  them.  In  my  pres 
ent  condition  I  throw  them  off.  I  have 
known  a  typhoid  convalescent  to  die  of  a 
bowl  of  bread  and  milk,  and  you  expect  me 
to  digest  a  surfeit  of  good  advice,  and  I,  not 
a  convalescent,  only  a  patient  approaching 
a  crisis.  There  is  a  time  to  preach,  and  a 
time  for  silence.  If  Blondin  were  crossing 
Niagara  on  a  wire,  you  would  not  yell  di 
rections  from  the  shore.  Also  there  is  a 
time  when  a  physician  drops  medications, 
and  watches  in  silence  the  heart  action; 
245 


246  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

then  is  the  moment  when,  knowing  he  has 
done  his  best,  he  waits  to  see  if  his  patient 
goes  under  or  over  the  fence.  I  am  rising 
to  the  jump  of  my  life;  I  may  clear  and 
land  in  clover;  I  may  trip  and  land  in  hell. 
So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  is  "a  condition, 
not  a  theory,  that  confronts  you." 

You  regret  the  fact  that  Mrs.  B.  cannot 
ride  on  my  saddle-bow,  down  Penn.  Avenue, 
with  the  atmosphere  all  little  holes,  made  by 
B.'s  bullets.  As  for  sabres,  I  am  afraid  he 
would  have  to  borrow  them  from  the  army, 
or  the  presentation  swords  in  the  Congres 
sional  Library. 

You  have  read  too  much  "  Don  Quixote." 
Come  back  to  earth,  O  Q.,  or  learn  the 
sense  of  Sancho,  or,  there  is  always  the 
"  quarries  "  for  me. 

Do  not  forget  there  can  be  strenuous  love 
without  strenuous  life;  besides,  it  appears 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  247 

to  me  that,  what  with  my  experiences  in 
Aiken  and  Washington,  all  the  strenuity  I 
need  has  been  injected  into  my  life  of  late. 
Your  sermons  are  stones  flung  at  a  con 
scious  sinner.  Keep  your  stones,  and  pre 
pare  your  oil  to  pour  into  the  wounds  of 
an  erring  friend.  You  would  not  kick  a 
man  when  he  is  down;  don't  sermonise 
him  while  the  battle  is  on.  He  needs  en 
couragement  then,  and  advice  afterward. 
A  clergyman  is  an  habitual  debauchee 
where  advice  is  concerned.  There  are  no 
men  in  the  world  who  need  to  learn  the 
value  of  silence  at  critical  moments  so  much 
as  God's  deputies.  With  the  majority  of 
your  cloth,  I  am  not  in  sympathy.  I  was 
teased  into  going  to  church  the  other  day, 
for  the  first  time  in  ten  years,  to  listen  to  an 
"  eminent  divine."  A  good,  vain  phrase, 
that.  After  listening  for  awhile,  I  discov- 


248  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

ered  I  was  the  meanest  of  God's  creatures; 
I  was  the  essence  of  all  selfishness,  a  sort 
of  human  hog;  I  was  hopeless  and  incorri 
gible.  He  called  us  by  implication  names 
that  could  not  have  passed  unnoticed  nor 
unchallenged  in  a  club,  where  one  man's 
privileges  are  no  greater  than  another's. 
Then,  having  humbled  us  sufficiently,  he 
changed  his  note,  and,  if  all  the  stops  in  an 
organ  had  been  pulled  out  at  once,  the  vol 
ume  of  sound  could  not  have  been  greater, 
as  he  cried,  "  Give,  give!"  Why,  the  two 
daughters  of  the  horse-leech  never  cried, 
"Give,  give!"  more  passionately.  It 
soemed  to  me  that  the  only  way  to  heaven 
was  to  crawl  through  an  empty  purse. 
Should  there  remain  but  one  lonely  dollar 
bill,  it  would  entangle  our  feet  as  we 
crawled,  and  impede  our  progress.  The 
price  of  redemption  was  not  repentance, 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  249 

but  the  limit  of  our  wealth.  He  seemed 
to  advertise  himself  as  a  "  go-between,"  and 
he  would  "  see  "  his  boss  about  us,  if  we 
would  "  see  "  him.  "  Your  money  or  your 
life,"  is  the  cry  of  the  highwayman.  "  Your 
money  or  no  everlasting  life,"  is  the  clergy 
man's  cry.  When  the  plate  was  passed,  I 
had  intended  to  contribute  twenty-five  dol 
lars,  so  in  a  little  way  to  make  up  for  ab 
sent  Sundays,  but  he  had  made  me  feel  so 
hopelessly  a  hog  that  it  was  useless  to  try 
to  be  anything  else,  so  I  gave  twenty-five 
cents.  Such  men  are  pulpit  Circes. 

Now  please  don't  imagine  these  com 
ments  reflect  upon  you  in  any  way.  You 
are  a  man  who  commands  my  respect  and 
admiration  in  as  many  ways  as  there  are 
points  to  a  compass.  I  would  change  places 
with  you  and  thank  God,  and  yet —  and  yet 


250  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

I  should  not  like  to  be  as  sure  about  any 
thing  as  you  are  about  everything. 

At  present  try  to  please  me  by  being 
more  gentle  with  me.  I  know  this  will  go 
against  the  grain,  but,  if  you  want  to  please 
a  person,  please  him  his  way,  not  yours; 
until  you  are  willing  to  do  this,  don't  try 
at  all,  for  you  are  only  pleasing  yourself,  not 
him.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy,  my 
father  gave  me  a  dollar,  and  then  told  me 
how  to  spend  it.  I  wished  it  back  in  his 
pocket.  I  had  a  pet  foolish  investment  for 
that  dollar  that  would  have  given  me  in 
finite  joy,  and  he  had  robbed  me  of  it. 

You  speak  in  your  letter  of  "  coddling 
criminals."  I  assisted  once  at  a  "  coddling." 
A  good-looking  mulatto  man  had  murdered 
his  benefactress.  Kneeling  on  her  breast,  he 
had  very  thoroughly  choked  the  life  out  of 
her.  He  was  tried  and  convicted,  and  was 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  251 

in  murderers'  row  in  the  Tombs.  Some 
young  women,  friends  of  mine,  insisted  they 
must  feast  their  eyes  upon  so  gallant  a  crea 
ture.  "Would  I  take  them?"  "No,  I 
would  not."  Then  they  would  go  alone. 
I  went.  The  victim  of  the  law  received 
them  very  kindly,  and  held  pleasing  con 
verse  with  them  between  the  bars,  showing 
when  he  smiled  two  rows  of  brilliant  teeth, 
which  excited  whispered  comments  of  ad 
miration.  I  was  compelled  to  empty  my 
pockets  of  all  my  matchless  cigars,  which 
were  placed  in  his  throttling  hands  by  the 
guiltless  hand  of  a  girl.  Much  encouraged, 
they  went  on  to  the  next  cell,  where  an  Ital 
ian  was  tarrying  on  his  way  to  his  Lord. 
As  a  slight  correction,  he  had  cut  his  wife's 
throat  because  his  polenta  had  been  over 
cooked.  At  the  sight  of  the  girls,  his  de 
light  was  boundless.  Beckoning  them  to 


252  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

come  nearer,  he  waited  until  all  their  lovely 
faces  were  pressed  between  the  bars;  then, 
with  the  accuracy  and  precision  of  an 
American  man-of-war  at  gun-practice,  he 
spat  in  each  and  every  face  before  they 
could  get  away.  I  am  sure  this  did  him 
more  good  than  the  cigars  did  the  other 
chap,  so  the  girls  should  have  been  pleased, 
but  they  were  not.  They  were  a  little  indig 
nant  with  him,  but  intensely  so  with  me,  for 
having  brought  them  to  such  a  place! 

And  now,  my  boy,  let  me  speak  for  a 
moment  about  what  you  tell  me  of  yourself 
and  changed  condition.  You  are  ever  in 
my  thoughts;  your  face  is  a  palimpsest  over 
hers.  I  must  lift  your  face  in  order  to  see 
hers.  I  cannot  believe  what  you  tell  me. 
That  Death  stands  behind  you  is  true,  but 
is  it  not  true  of  all  of  us?  If  he  has  taken 
a  step  nearer  you,  he  has  also  moved  nearer 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  253 

to  us  all.  Don't  loosen  that  mighty  grip 
of  yours.  God  may  need  you,  but  I  need 
you  more.  The  clergyman  was  right,  I  am 
selfish,  but  unselfishness  is  simply  a  capacity 
to  separate  yourself  from  yourself.  When 
you  can  forget  yourself,  you  remember  oth 
ers,  but  oh,  forgive  me,  just  now  I  cannot 
forget  myself  —  I  love  her  so. 

But  when,  in  the  years  to  come,  you  do 
leave  me,  think  of  the  rejoicing  in  heaven 
when  your  soul  reaches  home.  Your 
thoughtful  Lord  will  say,  "  Come  ye  your 
self  apart,  and  rest  awhile."  No  more  need 
of  patience,  no  more  need  of  courage,  while 
I  will  be  shaking  hands  with  the  Devil, 
and,  like  you,  too,  welcomed  as  worthy. 

Sunday. 

I  went  to  see  her  yesterday  at  their  new 
apartments.  B.  has  gone  to  New  York  in 


254  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

a  suit  of  ready-made  clothes,  on  business 
thoughts  intent.  Percy,  where  do  women's 
clothes  come  from?  Do  they  grow  over 
night?  For  she  was  in  the  prettiest  some 
thing  I  have  ever  seen.  Was  it  a  peignoir? 
was  it  a  "  robe  of  clouds?  "  The  room  was 
a  bowl  of  sunshine.  Percy,  the  sun  loves 
her,  even  as  the  moon,  even  as  I.  A  little 
canary  carolled  a  song  of  welcome  as  I  en 
tered,  its  throat  bursting  with  notes  that 
made  it  seem  to  choke  for  utterance;  they 
followed  each  other  in  rapid  succession, 
until  the  room  was  a  vibrating  box  of  mel 
ody.  Then  it  cocked  its  head  on  one  side, 
and  rested  with  even  more  self-satisfaction 
than  a  prima  donna.  The  heart  of  my  heart 
gave  me  her  hand,  and,  before  she  with 
drew  it,  said:  "  Even  the  bird  knows  who 
saved  my  life;  she  has  thanked  you,  may 
I?  "  A  rubber-tree  in  one  corner,  a  vase  of 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  255 

ferns  in  another,  a  bunch  of  roses,  a  Persian 
rug,  a  wood  fire  that  cracked  in  a  painfully 
reminiscent  way,  an  epitome  of  a  larger 
fire  we  had  been  in  together.  Everything 
on  her  and  about  her  was  dainty  and  sweet- 
smelling;  she  reminded  me  of  new-mown 
hay,  which  the  more  it  is  trampled  the 
stronger  the  perfume.  She  is  always  per 
fection  without  effort.  Percy,  have  you 
ever  met  any  one  mentally  bien  soignee? 
Her  mind  is  so  well  groomed;  intellect 
and  intelligence  draped  with  kindness  of 
heart. 

At  last  she  said: 
"  You  saved  my  husband,  also." 
"  No,"   I   answered.     "  We  saved  each 
other." 

Lifting  her  eyes,  she  said: 

"  No,  you  went  back  for  him." 

"  Yes,"  I  admitted. 


256 

"  Why?  Was  it  for  me,  was  it  for  him, 
was  it  for  your  sake,  or  for  God's?  " 

"  For  my  sake,"  I  answered. 

"  I  used  to  understand  everything  once 
upon  a  time;  now  I  understand  nothing," 
she  mused  aloud. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  understand,  except 
belated  love  has  entered  into  our  lives,"  I 
told  her. 

"  Should  not  this  belated  love  be  cast  out? 
But,  if  so,  where  is  the  strength,  alas!  where 
the  inclination?  Right  seems  so  far  away, 
and  wrong  so  close  at  hand.  If  the  sense  of 
right  did  its  duty  as  steadfastly  as  the  in 
clination  to  wrong,  there  would  be  fewer 
failures  in  this  world.  I  fear  the  sense  of 
right  is  one  of  the  seven  sleepers  of  Ephesus. 
I  thought  I  loved  my  husband  once,  just  for 
a  little  while;  do  I  only  think  I  love  you 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  257 

now?  That  would  be  a  tragedy,  would  it 
not?  " 

"  To  think  involves  a  question,  a  question 
a  doubt;  doubt  and  love  have  never  walked 
hand  in  hand." 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  thoughtfully. 
"  Women  give  many  things  without  know 
ing  why,  and  many  more  things  without 
recompense." 

"Am  I  and  my  love  no  recompense?" 

"  Sometimes  everything,  and  sometimes 
nothing.  Sometimes  I  like  brutality,  and 
sometimes  tenderness.  I  have  known  the 
time  when  I  would  rather  have  been  struck 
than  be  kissed." 

"  I  remember  a  time  —  "I  expostulated, 
but  she  interrupted: 

"Yes,  and  I,  too;  that  was  a  time  when 
I  would  rather  have  been  kissed,"  and  she 
smiled. 


258 

The  very  recollection  made  all  the  bad 
in  me  rise  like  sediment  that  has  been 
stirred,  and  rest  like  scum  on  water.  How 
can  a  woman  make  good  look  out  of  her 
eyes  when  evil  should?  Women  are  not 
actresses;  they  don't  need  to  be;  they  fall 
into  beautiful,  alluring  shapes  and  forms 
like  bits  of  coloured  glass  in  a  kaleidoscope 
when  their  emotions  turn  the  crank. 

"  The  institution  of  marriage,"  she  con 
tinued,  "  as  it  is  now  is  a  mistake.  As  I 
read  somewhere,  marriage  contracts  should 
be  drawn  like  leases,  say  for  five  years,  with 
a  privilege  of  renewal.  Then  the  very  fact 
that  at  the  end  of  a  certain  time  each  would 
be  at  liberty  to  follow  his  or  her  own  sweet 
will  would  prove  to  be  the  greatest  safe 
guard.  No  two  people  love  each  other  in 
exactly  the  same  degree;  so  this  plan 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  259 

would  keep  the  one  who  loves  the  more 
uncommonly  polite  and  attentive." 

"  In  case  of  separation,  what  would  be 
come  of  the  children?  "  I  asked. 

"  If  there  is  more  than  one,  divide  them, 
or  let  the  parent  who  so  wishes  take  them 
all,  or,  better  still,  let  the  state  take  them 
and  educate  them,  and  bring  them  through 
teething,  measles,  scarlet  fever,  and  whoop 
ing-cough.  We  could  be  heavily  taxed  for 
this  purpose." 

"  You  evidently,"  I  said,  "  think  parents 
devote  too  much  time  to  their  children.  I 
agree  with  you.  Each  of  us  has  but  one 
life  to  lead,  and  why,  when  you  are  still 
young,  should  you  merge  it  into  the  life  of 
an  uninteresting  and  sometimes  ungrateful 
offspring?  For  a  man  marriage  is  a  proc 
ess  of  obliteration.  A  smart  person  once 
asserted  that  matrimony  meant  one  woman 


260  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

more  and  one  man  less.  The  first  year  your 
roast  beef  is  of  importance,  the  second  year 
the  baby's  milk,  and  so  on  until  you  have 
faded  away,  and  you  realise  that  even  the 
servants  are  of  more  importance.  Of  course 
you  regain  a  little  of  your  lost  prestige  in 
the  eyes  of  your  wife  when  the  time  comes 
for  you  to  teach  your  children  the  earlier 
stages  of  arithmetic.  About  this  time,  the 
husband  finds  the  substance  of  his  life  out 
side,  and  only  the  shadow  at  home.  An 
other  thing,  children  should  be  born  ten 
years  old,  at  the  least.  The  length  of  their 
infancy  is  intolerable.  Think  of  all  those 
wasted  years  for  them.  In  after  times,  they 
remember  nothing  of  them;  they  might  as 
well  have  been  passed  on  another  planet. 
The  thousand  and  one  sacrifices  you  have 
made  for  them  are  bunched  together  into 
the  one  idea,  —  you  are  a  very  nice  papa 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  261 

and  mamma,  or  you  are  not.  Only  very, 
very  good  and  at  the  same  time  untruthful 
people  remember  their  infancy.  As  for  me, 
I  cannot  remember  my  mother's  knee  as 
a  throne  of  grace  or  a  place  of  punishment, 
nor  when  I  got  my  first  long  boots,  or  my 
first  baseball  bat,  nor  when  I  stole  the  jam. 
All  good  people  remember  when  they  stole 
the  jam,  but  I  must  have  been  bad  and  did 
not  steal  the  jam,  or  else  jam  wasn't  in 
vented." 

You  may  say,  dear  Percy,  that  this  was 
queer  talk  for  lovers,  but  I  have  eliminated 
the  passages  that  would  make  you  frown, 
and  only  recorded  those  I  hoped  would 
make  you  smile.  Never  fear,  there  were 
moments  that  were  precious  to  both,  for 
remember,  where  love  is  concerned,  the 
wickedest  day  of  all  the  week  is  Sunday. 
You  speak  in  your  letter  of  the  lack  of  a 


262 

machine  to  measure  the  duration  of  love.  I 
need  none;  mine  can  be  measured  by  the 
simple  span  of  my  life. 

Washington,  D.  C. 

Another  Sunday  a  thousand  years  after 
ward. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  shall  be  able 
to  write  you  all  that  has  happened ;  whether 
it  will  prove  a  relief,  or  I  shall  revolt  from 
it,  I  cannot  tell;  however,  I  shall  try. 

The  day  after  my  interview  with  her  in 
Washington,  I  received  a  line,  saying:  "  B. 
has  telegraphed  me  to  come  on  to  New 
York.  I  leave  on  the  3.20."  I  looked  at 
my  watch;  it  was  four.  It  would  not  do 
to  follow  so  soon,  so  I  wrote  to  her.  I  in 
close  you  my  letters  to  her,  for,  God  help 
me,  she  sent  them  back  to  me.  Here  is  the 
first: — 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  263 

My  Letter 

"  O  my  awakening,  I  salute  thee,  Dawn, 
for  night  it  was  before  I  met  you.  I  was 
a  man  who  thought  life  had  no  secrets  hid 
den,  but  you  taught  me  what  it  was  to 
change  from  negative  to  positive  happiness. 

"  Before  I  met  you,  my  life  had  been 
rhythm,  not  music.  Oh,  the  vast  difference 
between  the  simple  beat  that  marks  the  time 
and  an  ever  whispering  melody  that  is  all 
love. 

"  Wordsworth  writes  of  '  The  light  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land.'  Dear  heart,  dear 
heart,  he  never  saw  it,  but  I  have;  'twas 
the  light  in  your  eyes  when  first  you  found 
courage  to  say,  '  I  love  you.' 

"  I  thought,  when  we  parted,  to  forget 
you.  What  a  waste  of  time!  One  cannot 
rub  out  mountains  with  a  sponge.  I  have 


264  APARISHOF    TWO 

given  up  the  unequal  struggle,  and  now 
find  all  the  glory  of  my  life  in  that  imperial 
chain  of  hills  that  binds  my  heart  to  yours, 
for  every  mound  is  a  memory,  and  every 
memory  an  everlasting  joy.  God  bless  you. 
He  has  me,  insomuch  as  I  have  your  love. 
Of  course  our  love  cannot  be  blessed  of 
Heaven,  so  says  the  Lord,  so  says  the  law, 
but  I  do  delight  to  think  the  Lord  who 
made  it  knows  when  to  forget  as  well  as 
when  to  forgive.  The  law  was  made  for 
the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  num 
ber,  but  we,  just  for  our  little  lives,  wish  to 
be  selfish  and  think  only  of  the  happiness 
of  two. 

"  My  beloved,  I  know  what  awaits  us,  — 
some  day,  for  you,  a  sweet  lavender  mem 
ory,  but  I  will  be  like  a  lost  soul  in  space 
that  has  missed  the  road  to  heaven. 

"  I  live  no  lie;    I  am  simply  an  expres- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  265 

sion  that  spells  heaven  in  your  presence 
and  hell  in  your  absence.  It  is  amusingly 
strange  how  God's  best  gift,  love,  is  of  all 
things  exclusive.  It  is  the  reduction  of  the 
universe  to  two  people.  '  The  tender  grace 
of  the  days  that  are  dead  will  never  come 
back  to  me.'  Dead  they  may  be,  but  buried, 
never.  I  must  sit  in  years  to  come  a  dead 
man  alone  with  a  live  memory. 

"  I  have  always  thought  propinquity 
and  contact  fired  a  man,  and  absence  and 
imagination  fired  a  woman,  but  since  we 
parted,  I  know  that  no  actual  experience 
of  my  life  equals  the  simple  memory  of 
your  eyes. 

"  God  is  love,  God  is  mercy.  He  gave 
us  the  first;  for  us  in  the  end  must  He  keep 
the  latter. 

"  Let  that  peace  which  passeth  all  under- 


266  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

standing  be  always  yours,  as  I  am,  and  ever 
shall  be." 

Here  is  her  answer: — > 

"  Your  letter  received  and  contents  noted. 
You  say  I  am  not  businesslike,  but  you  see 
I  am. 

"  I  am  in  a  mood.  Being  a  woman,  of 
course  I  am  in  a  mood.  Your  letter,  though 
inexpressibly  sad,  has  made  me  marvel 
lously  happy.  I  must  be  frivolous;  some 
times  it  serves  as  a  safety-valve.  The  two 
extremes  in  a  woman  are  farther  apart  than 
in  a  man;  she  can  be  happier  and  infinitely 
more  miserable.  Once  in  a  long  while,  her 
happiness  chokes  the  very  arteries  of  her 
heart;  then  she  must  dance  it  off.  Then 
it  is  that  caprice,  frivolity,  and  inconse 
quence  save  her  from  folly.  Do  you  know 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  267 

there  is  very  little  pride  in  man's  love,  but 
in  a  woman's  love  pride  takes  an  important 
place.  If  she  be  not  proud  of  the  man  and 
of  his  love,  she  may  know  passion  but  noth 
ing  more.  I  am  so  proud.  You  are  a  king 
over  a  kingdom  of  one  subject.  Are  you 
content?  Remember,  dear,  there  is  a  great 
difference  between  an  autocrat  and  a  des 
pot;  because  I  curtsy  to  you  in  soul,  mind, 
heart,  and  body,  don't  become  a  tyrant. 

"  You  say  you  are  l  like  a  dead  man  alone 
with  a  live  memory.'  For  shame!  To  me 
you  are  a  living  actuality,  and  always  will 
be,  present  or  absent.  I  don't  think  men 
are  so  clever,  because  they  complain  that 
women  are  incomprehensible.  I  never 
heard  a  woman  say  that  of  a  man,  did  you, 
my  lord? 

"  God  gave  man  intellect  and  woman  in 
tuition.  The  latter  works  quicker  and  saves 


268  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

time,  and  it  is  well,  for  a  woman's  heart 
so  soon  grows  old,  and  a  man's  so  soon  grows 
cold.  I  used  to  regret  that  what  was  past 
was  irrevocable,  but  now  I  revel  in  the  fact 
that  our  little  past  is  fixed  in  our  minds 
for  all  time.  Those  days  were  a  part  of  my 
life;  they  are  now  all  my  life.  I  only 
regret  I  did  not  realise  more  fully  at  the 
time  that  I  was  in  sight  of  heaven.  Why 
was  I  not  a  good  Mahometan,  down  on  my 
knees  five  times  a  day,  thanking  God  for 
having  brought  you  into  my  life?  When 
did  a  woman  realise  at  the  time?  It  is  this 
incapacity  that  has  made  all  the  bad  women 
in  the  world. 

"  You  say  our  love  *  cannot  be  blessed  of 
Heaven.'  How  do  you  know,  omniscient 
one?  Wait  and  see.  I  know  I  never  felt 
so  near  my  God  as  now.  Love  and  religion 
go  hand  in  hand  in  a  woman's  heart.  I  feel 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  269 

bathed  in  the  sunshine  of  His  grace;  noth 
ing  in  my  life  has  been  taken  away,  but 
something  added  of  unspeakable  value. 
Does  he  so  reward  the  undeserving?  Please 
say,  '  Never.' 

"  When  you  can,  come  to  me.  I  will 
radiate  an  atmosphere  of  welcome.  I  will 
abase  myself,  I  will  glorify  myself  in  your 
honour.  Come,  for  I  love  you." 

I  wrote  to  her  again  as  follows :  — 

"  I  am  inclined  to  use  a  diminutive  to  you 
for  the  first  time,  your  letter  was  so  whole 
somely  childish.  Don't  be  annoyed,  re 
member  a  child's  chief  charm  is  in  the  fact 
that  it  has  so  lately  left  heaven,  to  which 
we  some  day  hope  to  go.  Later,  friction 
with  the  world  rubs  the  nap  off.  You,  dear 
heart,  have  a  child's  soul,  a  woman's  heart, 


270  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

and  a  man's  intuition.  You  see,  I  claim 
for  a  man  intuition,  perhaps  of  a  superior 
quality  to  that  possessed  by  a  woman;  but, 
if  you  doubt  it,  as  you  say  to  me,  '  wait  and 


see.' 


"Listen:  with  a  man,  passion  uncon 
sciously  precedes  love;  with  a  woman  it 
is  the  reverse,  and  sometimes  with  her  the 
former  is  long  in  coming.  The  man  who 
is  successful  with  women  is  not  the  man 
who  cries,  like  one  in  the  wilderness,  I  want, 
I  wish,  but  one  who  waits  writh  perfect  self- 
control  until  he  hears  this  cry  whispered 
by  the  lips  of  the  woman  he  loves.  If  a 
besieging  lover  has  patience,  perhaps  he 
may  have  success.  Perfect  love  is  a  flower, 
of  which  passion  is  the  stem,  but  women 
and  men  arrive  at  perfection  by  a  different 
procedure. 

"  This  is  intuition,  or  how  should  I,  so 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  271 

long  unloved,  unsung,  be  so  wise,  unless  it 
is  true  that  one  woman  can  teach  to  a  man 
all  that  all  women  know?  Perhaps  you,  O 
God-given,  are  responsible  for  this  newly 
acquired  knowledge,  that  —  strange  —  I 
seem  always  to  have  possessed. 

"  There  is  very  little  more  for  me  to  tell 
you,  dear.  You  know  that  where  you  are, 
the  world  is  a  garden;  where  you  are  not, 
a  desert.  '  To  keep  Time's  perishing  touch 
at  bay,'  I  have  only  to  think  of  you,  but 
when  my  turn  comes  at  last  to  answer  the 
Judge  of  Judges,  I  shall  point  to  the  one 
glory  of  my  life,  and  say:  '  I  won  her  love; 
is  it  not  enough? ' 

Washington,  D.  C. 

I  could  stand  the  separation  no  longer, 
so  I  followed  her  on  to  New  York.  The 
night  after  my  arrival  I  went  to  the  opera 


272  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

with  her.    What  happened  you  can  judge 
by  my  next  letter  to  her,  which  I  inclose :  — 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye,  —  the  words  keep 
clanging  in  my  ears  like  the  maddening 
iteration  of  a  brain-beating  bell.  Good 
bye  means  '  May  God  be  with  you.'  When 
you  so  spoke  to  me  last  night,  and  added, 
1  for  all  time,'  I  wonder  was  God  with  you. 
I  doubt  it.  As  I  understand  it,  we  are  not 
to  see  each  other  again.  We  are  to  crush 
out,  to  stamp  out,  to  destroy  our  love  for 
one  another,  as  the  progress  of  a  forest  fire 
is  arrested,  in  order  to  save  other  things 
supposedly  more  valuable,  —  that  you  may 
keep  your  conscience  unspotted,  that  you 
may  regain  the  habit  of  looking  your  hus 
band  straight  in  the  eye,  that  I  may  keep 
unstained  a  dull,  lustreless  reputation.  This 
may  be  wisdom,  and  it  may  not.  How  can 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  273 

I  tell  that  our  happiness  is  something  less 
important  than  a  clear  conscience?  My 
conscience  has  been  comparatively  clear  for 
years.  Has  it  brought  me  happiness?  If 
it  has,  it  has  been  of  a  quality  I  could  not 
realise,  whereas  you  have  set  the  world  to 
music  for  me.  This  may  not  be  clear  to  you. 
I  cannot  make  things  clear  to-day,  my  brain 
feels  so  old,  so  very  old  —  and  all  this  you 
chose  to  say  to  me  in  the  entr'actes  of  an 
opera!  What  a  little  difference  environ 
ment  makes  to  a  woman.  As  you  spoke, 
I  felt  as  if  the  very  essence  of  life  were  pass 
ing  away  from  me.  I  felt,  as  you  took  my 
heart  out  and  analysed  it,  like  a  subject  on 
an  operating-table  to  whom  no  anaesthetic 
has  been  given.  The  crowds  in  the  galleries 
seemed  to  me  like  the  curious  faces  in  the 
amphitheatre  of  a  clinic.  They  fastened 
their  eyes  on  me,  not  on  the  stage,  and  one 


274  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

man,  not  a  woman,  only  one  man,  looked 
sorry  as  I  died  before  his  eyes.  Oh,  God! 
I  hope  they  have  learned  something,  other 
wise  I  have  died  in  vain. 

"  For  a  moment  my  arm  became  nerve 
less;  I  could  not  write.  I  have  been  out 
for  a  walk.  What  is  the  matter  with  all  the 
world?  They  look  at  me  and  they  act  as  if 
in  the  presence  of  death ;  they  speak  in  sub 
dued  voices.  Can  they  have  guessed  the 
truth?  Do  they  know  I  died  last  night? 
With  me,  this  is  not  death,  of  course;  it 
is  only  loneliness  carried  to  the  point  of 
death.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  the  loneli 
ness  is  like.  Friends  have  fallen  away  from 
me  to-day,  like  leaves  from  a  sapless  tree. 
I  feel  as  if  my  soul  were  bared  to  a  sightless 
world,  and  no  one  knew  and  no  one  cared 
that  my  soul  was  a  soul  in  pain.  I  feel  as  if 
my  horizon  had  lost  all  undulation  and  be- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  275 

come  a  straight  line,  and  I  seem  to  be  near- 
ing  the  edge  with  giant  strides,  but  without 
curiosity.  Why  is  everything  so  still?  I 
never  knew  such  a  soundless  day.  I  hear 
nothing  but  the  bell  that  says,  '  Good-bye.' 

"  What  new  trick  is  this  of  God's?  What 
right  has  He  to  torture  who  calls  Himself 
mercy? 

"  Oh,  God!  Give  her  back  to  me;  I  say 
give  her  back  to  me,  I  say  give  her  back 
to  me,  or  I  will  fit  my  soul  for  hell.  I  will 
see  You  gain  nothing;  You  shall  lose. 

"  Oh,  dear  God,  give  her  back  to  me! 

"  I  now  know  why  I  hear  the  bell  so 
clearly;  my  skull  is  the  bell,  and  the  tongue 
hits  either  side.  Oh,  dear  heart,  if  it  were 
only  not  so  regular!  Could  it  but  miss  a 
stroke,  something  to  break  the  awful 
rhythm.  If  it  is  to  be  always  with  me,  it 
must  learn  to  say,  '  I  love  you,  I  love  you.' 


276  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

"  I  have  waited  a  moment  and  listened. 
I  have  tried  to  teach  it,  but  it  won't  learn. 
I  shall  go  mad,  for  it  still  clangs  with  fear 
ful  distinctness,  'Good-bye,  good-bye!' 

New  York. 

She  was  kind  enough  to  reply.  I  make 
no  comment;  it  is  for  you  to  judge. 

"DEAREST:  — 

"  I  never  meant  to  write  to  you  again, 
but  your  letter  requires  a  word  —  a  final 
word.  A  man's  love  is  all  selfishness,  a 
woman's  all  sacrifice;  with  a  man  it  means 
possession,  with  us  peace.  I  wrote  you  that 
'  I  never  felt  so  near  my  God  as  now.' 
Blind  at  the  time,  I  mistook  you  for  my 
God.  We  women  do  that  sometimes. 

"  There  is  no  peace  for  a  cultivated  con 
science  that  is  not  clear. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  277 

"  You  have  your  work,  I  my  religion ; 
they  must  suffice.  The  earth,  '  God's  foot 
stool,'  slipped  away  from  under  my  feet 
when  I  met  you,  but  the  very  love  I  bear 
you  has  led  me  —  not  to  you  —  but  back  to 
the  spot  on  which  I  stood  so  firmly  before 
I  knew  you.  I  am  so  glad  for  your  sake. 

"  The  tension  of  the  last  few  hours  has 
been  too  great.  Something  in  your  brain 
has  snapped,  but  it  will  mend;  it  will  heal 
in  time,  only  wait. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  have  grown  won 
derfully  philosophical  for  a  woman  who 
could  never  lay  claim  to  philosophy  before, 
but  wisdom  must  come  to  a  woman  quickly, 
or  not  at  all.  Do  not  think  I  have  ceased 
to  love  you;  you  would  be  wrong.  It  is 
simply  that  my  feeling  for  you  has  merged 
into  something  greater,  my  love  of  God,  or 
all  that's  good. 


278  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

"  A  woman's  love  is  always  hysterical, 
whether  for  God  or  man,  but  not  necessarily 
ephemeral.  The  light  that  floods  my  eyes 
now,  and  shuts  you  off,  enables  me  to  see 
the  value  of  things  in  their  true  perspective. 

"  Again,  *  For  all  time,  good-bye.'  " 

And  here  is  my  last  word  to  her:  — 

"Women  are  never  selfish,  except  un 
consciously  so.  I  say  this  because  it  is  the 
custom  in  this  country  to  exalt  women  at 
the  expense  of  truth. 

"  I  am  quite  healed,  for  which  I  thank 
your  last  letter.  I  feel  like  a  typhoid  pa 
tient,  who  has  been  cured  by  an  iced  bath. 
You  remind  me  of  a  pivoting  prism,  but 
the  side  that  is  toward  me  now  reflects  no 
light.  Your  iridescent  love  is  your  God's 
just  now,  I  believe, 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  279 

"  Hitherto  I  have  cultivated  my  memory; 
hereafter  it  shall  be  forgetfulness,  for  in  this 
world  it  is  better  to  know  how  to  forget 
than  how  to  remember. 

"  A  woman's  capacity  to  disengage  her 
self  from  a  fact  and  embrace  a  theory  is 
worthy  of  everything  but  emulation.  The 
fact  that  I  loved  you  seems  to  have  been  ab 
solutely  lost  sight  of  in  your  theories  about 
right  and  wrong.  I  do  not  judge  you,  I 
only  wonder.  Our  natures  and  dispositions 
are  so  different,  one  from  the  other,  that  to 
sit  in  judgment  is  an  assumption  of  the 
rights  of  God. 

"  You  cannot  take  away  from  me  the  love 
I  bear  for  the  woman  I  once  knew,  any 
more  than  you  can  steal  the  memory  of  some 
music  that  has  become  a  part  of  my  life,  but 
do  not  grieve  over  this ;  it  is  only  a  fact  that 
you  can  readily  ignore.  God  has  given  you 


280  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

a  conscience;  has  He  one  of  His  own?  If 
so,  some  things  He  permits  on  this  earth 
must  give  it  many  a  season  of  unrest!" 

Quick,  quick,  Percy,  to  my  aid.  Write 
immediately,  or  shall  I  come  to  you?  I 
said  I  was  quite  healed;  I  lied,  from  a 
pride  I  had  not.  Once  in  an  abattoir  I  saw 
the  heart  of  a  bullock  torn  from  the  warm 
flesh  and  thrown  on  the  ground ;  it  quivered 
from  the  cold.  Oh,  I  am  so  cold,  so  cold! 
Make  haste.  Yours, 

DOUGLAS. 


NINETEENTH    LETTER 

Boston,  Mass. 

MY  DEAR  DOUGLAS  :  — 

To  say  that  I  am  sorry  is  merely  the  rough 
way  of  language  to  express  to  you  my  grief. 
I  have  no  preachments  for  a  man  torn  and 
hurt  as  you  are.  What  did  it,  who  did  it, 
whether  there  is  a  right  or  wrong,  matters 
not,  now  that  you  are  wounded  and  sore- 
hearted.  Of  course  you  may  come  to  me, 
if  you  can.  How  gladly  I  would  go  to  you, 
or  take  you  away  somewhere  if  I  could. 
What  a  bundle  of  sorrows  is  that  sheaf  of 
letters,  —  your  own  bone  thrown  back  at 
you,  and  this  strange  woman  more  of  an 
enigma  than  ever,  at  least  to  me.  I  have 

so  little  experience  of  women  that  I  must 
281 


282  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

needs  write  to  you  very  roughly,  apparently, 
merely  because  this  woman  and  all  women 
are  theories  to  me.  They  express  a  right 
or  a  wrong,  and  there  my  experience  stops 
short.  My  mother,  as  you  know,  was  an 
angel,  gentle,  patient,  forgiving,  sober- 
minded,  married  young,  dead  before  she 
was  forty,  and  leaving  a  memory  that  made 
all  women  sacred  to  the  males  of  her  house 
hold.  Katharine,  my  sister,  with  more  ex 
perience  of  the  world,  is  not  unlike  her, 
gentle,  forgiving,  seeing  no  evil,  about 
whom  the  trials  and  troubles  of  her  house 
hold  and  of  her  friends  flock  as  naturally 
as  birds  about  a  lighthouse.  This  friend  of 
yours,  whose  letters  I  am  very  glad  to  read, 
because  they  give  me  the  only  glimpse  I 
am  ever  to  have  of  her  now,  she  seems  to  me 
different.  You  may  be  wrong  in  accusing 
her  of  flippancy,  of  hardness,  though. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  283 

There  are  some  natures  who  find  it  of  all 
things  the  hardest  to  let  themselves  go,  to 
speak  out  their  love,  to  express  their  affec 
tion,  to  show  the  fidelity  of  thought  and 
longing,  which  is  in  reality  part  of  their 
being.  Have  you  not  seen  men  and  women 
both,  who  seemed  unable  to  express  freely 
their  deepest  and  best,  who  were  wrapped 
up  in  their  self-control,  and  who  had  to  tear 
open  the  doors  of  their  hearts,  even  to  those 
whose  images  \vere  locked  therein?  I  have 
known  one  or  two  such  people.  My  ma 
ternal  grandfather  was  such  an  one.  Stern, 
strict,  unforgiving,  hard,  and  yet  passionate, 
fond  of  his  own,  and  as  unable  to  show  the 
little  graces  of  affection  as  though  he  were 
without  language.  I  sympathise  with  this 
superficially  hard,  though  really  loving  and 
affectionate  temperament  I  know  some 
thing  of  its  trials  myself.  I  never  found  it 


284  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

easy,  even  in  my  immediate  surroundings, 
to  make  the  children,  my  nieces  and 
nephews,  or  even  my  sister  and  brother, 
to  know  how  hearty  was  my  affection.  No 
one  loves  affection  more  than  I,  and  yet 
few,  I  ween,  express  it  more  awkwardly, 
more  coldly.  It  is  all  dull,  crumbling, 
dusty  lava  outside,  but  with  a  fire  to  con 
sume  a  village  inside.  Perhaps  this  woman 
who  has  hurt  you  so  is  like  that.  I  am  un 
willing  to  believe  that  mere  flippancy,  mere 
indifference  is  at  the  bottom  of  this  change. 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  can  read  between  the 
lines  of  her  letters  the  effort  to  appear  cold, 
to  defend  herself  from  what  really  frightens 
her  by  a  show  of  thoughtlessness,  by  a  su 
percilious  trifling,  that  are  not  at  all  her 
real  self.  Not  that  I  would  defend  her, 
my  dear  boy.  Not  that  she  has  not  done 
right.  Not  that  you  will  not  find  it  so  some 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  285 

day,  no  matter  how  black  it  all  is  now.  But 
now  I  am  only  your  friend,  and  the  world 
and  its  conventions,  or  even  its  laws,  must 
go  for  the  moment.  "  My  brother  and  I 
quarrel,  but  it  is  my  brother  and  I  against 
the  world,"  runs  the  Arabic  proverb.  It  is 
you  and  I  against  the  world  now,  until  you 
are  healed  and  sound  in  heart  and  mind 
again.  Can  you  not  go  away  now,  and  get 
out  of  the  environment  where  there  is  a 
chance  of  you  two  meeting  again?  Do  not, 
I  beg  of  you  now,  become  fired  with  the 
mad  desire  to  grasp  and  pull  and  tear  this 
volatile,  or  seemingly  volatile,  person  back 
into  your  life  again.  Men  are  sometimes, 
I  think,  maddened  by  the  mere  lust  of  pur 
suit.  They  follow  and  hunt  down  their 
love,  as  they  would  a  wild  beast  that  they 
wound  and  which  escapes.  They  then  be 
come  untiring  in  pursuit.  The  beast  that 


286  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

is  wounded  is  the  one  they  will  have  and 
none  other,  though  hundreds  of  others  haunt 
the  forest.  But  this  is  all  of  life  to  me,  I 
hear  you  say.  It  is  not  the  chase;  it  is  not 
hunting;  it  is  life  or  death.  Believe  it  not. 
Life  has  many  corners,  and  when  we  come 
to  the  one  we  take  to  be  the  last,  we  turn 
it  to  find  still  another  and  yet  another,  and 
perhaps  peace  awaiting  us  behind  one  or 
another  where  we  least  expected  to  find  it. 

"  Say  not  the  struggle  naught  availeth, 

The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 
The  enemy  faints  not  nor  faileth, 

And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

"  For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 

Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 
Far  back  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

"  And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light, 
In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly, 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright." 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  287 

You  are  a  young  man  yet,  far  too  young 
to  live  in  despair,  to  give  way  to  cynicism, 
to  become  suspicious,  to  think  ill  of  men 
and  women,  to  doubt  their  affection,  to  feel 
yourself  wounded  mortally  and  finally,  and 
with  no  more  battle  in  you,  no  more  capac 
ity  to  love  and  trust.  I  will  not  have  that 
happen  to  you;  that  must  not  be  your  fate, 
just  because  a  careless  slingsman  has  caught 
you  in  the  forehead  with  a  pebble. 

I  thank  you  for  your  confidence  in  me, 
and  for  the  real  affection  shown  in  sharing 
with  me  your  miseries.  One  shares  one's 
joys  with  all  the  world,  but  one's  sorrows 
with  the  heart's  own  family,  and  what  a 
small  one  it  is,  as  one  travels  on  the  other 
side  of  forty.  Bring  me  what  you  will. 
It  makes  me  feel  myself  of  more  use  in  the 
world,  as  though  I  had  a  task,  a  duty,  a 
parish  again,  to  whom  I  mean  something, 


288  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

for  whom  I  stand  for  something.  Perhaps 
I  could  do  more  if  I  had  my  strength,  if 
I  could  walk,  if  I  could  grasp  the  problem 
physically  and  not  merely  mentally,  but 
somehow  I  itch  to  get  up  and  move  now. 
It  is  like  being  chained,  while  savages  maul 
those  you  love.  It  is  hard  for  me  to  tell 
you  this,  but  what  a  poor  thing  am  I  now 
if  I  give  not  the  best  I  have. 

I  loved  a  woman  once.  She  loved  me, 
or  thought  she  did.  I  was  not  unlovable 
in  those  days  —  I  mean  it  was  not  prepos 
terous,  as  it  is  now.  I  have  some  brown 
bundles  of  letters  that  some  day,  when  I  am 
gone,  I  have  left  it  to  you  to  burn.  I  have 
not  the  heart  to  do  it  myself.  But  some 
how,  as  I  went  on  in  my  life,  she  seemed  to 
have  less  and  less  interest  in  it  and  in  me,  and 
I  did  what  you  will  perhaps  think  cruel  or 
even  unmanly.  I  gave  her  cause  of  offence. 


A    PARISH    OFTWO  289 

I  wrote  sneeringly,  cynically;  I  made  out 
that  I  was  even  less  interested  in  her,  and 
one  day  there  was  a  break  and  tears,  and  I 
have  been  empty-hearted  ever  since.  I 
knew  then  it  was  best  for  her,  and  the  years 
have  proved  me  right,  because  God  knows 
she  is  happier  now  than  if  she  had  been  tied 
to  me.  You  see  men  and  women  do  strange 
things.  Even  I,  your  father  in  God,  have 
deceived  a  woman,  and  wilfully,  though 
then  I  could  have  flung  myself  to  death  for 
her.  Some  one  may  be  torturing  you  now 
for  your  own  good,  for  her  own  good,  en 
tangling  ever  more  herself  and  you  in  the 
impossible  task  of  unravelling  God's  wars 
with  his  children.  I  am  bitter  with  myself 
when  I  think  that  I  was  writing  coldly,  an 
alytically,  and  fingering  over  your  nerves 
at  a  time  when  you  were  overwhelmed  with 
sorrows,  and  none  by  to  share  them.  Forget 


290  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

all  that.  Shove  my  sermons  into  the  fire. 
Come  to  me  here,  and  let  us  read  these  let 
ters  over  together  by  my  fire,  and  see  if 
we  may  not  find  some  healing  for  you  yet, 
some  solution  of  this  sorcery. 

What  would  it  mean  to  you  if,  by  my 
fire,  I  told  you  of  this  woman  now  married 
to  a  man  very  different  from  me,  and  so  far 
as  I  know  happy  enough  with  him?  It 
somehow  sets  me  dreaming  of  those  days, 
as  I  lie  here  now  thinking  of  you.  She  was 
brown-haired  and  brown-eyed.  She  could 
ride  and  swim,  even  as  I,  and  that  was  a 
bond  in  itself  in  those  days.  She  was  of 
Quaker  blood,  but,  through  the  death  of  her 
mother,  had  been  educated  in  Paris,  and  for 
years  had  been  the  pet  and  boon  companion 
of  her  father,  a  rich  and  cultured  man.  She 
knew  the  world  much  as  I  knew  it,  and  in 
those  days  I  had  few  friends,  either  men  or 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  291 

women,  whose  experience  and  knowledge 
were  of  that  cosmopolitan  kind.  She  was 
a  delight  to  me  in  all  these  ways,  as  you  can 
fancy.  French  was  my  other  tongue,  and 
yet  she  knew  it  better  than  I.  I  was  bub 
bling  over  with  animal  spirits  that  knew 
no  tiring,  and  her  laugh  and  gaiety  and  col 
our  kept  pace  with  my  love  of  games  and 
sports.  I  was  the  browned  and  sturdy  fel 
low,  whom  you  used  to  know,  fresh  from 
a  month  or  two  of  the  spring  rowing  at 
Cambridge.  I  had  been  on  to  New  York 
with  others,  to  attend  a  farewell  dinner  to 
a  friend  who  was  sailing  for  Europe  and 
thence  to  India.  We  had  the  rather  bois 
terous  dinner  that  fellows  of  from  twenty 
to  thirty  enjoy.  I  came  back  alone  on  the 
express-train.  Going  from  one  car  to  an 
other,  a  lurch  of  the  train  threw  me  off  the 
platform,  and  only  because  I  caught  my 


292  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

right  arm  through  the  iron  railing,  and  held 
on  and  finally  pulled  myself  back,  was  I 
saved  from  a  bad  mangling  on  the  road 
side,  if  not  from  something  worse.  Several 
of  the  passengers  rushed  to  the  door,  and  I 
was  for  a  little  the  centre  of  observation 
when  I  got  back  into  my  chair.  I  kept 
seeing  a  pair  of  brown  eyes  peeping  over  a 
magazine,  and  those  eyes  were  soft  and  in 
terested,  and,  as  I  thought,  even  sympa 
thetic.  At  any  rate,  if  she  could  read  any 
thing  at  all,  she  must  have  read  a  very  great 
interest  in  mine.  I  had  never  seen  her  be 
fore,  but  I  meditated  finding  out  who  was 
to  meet  her  in  Boston,  and  then,  —  why 
then! 

Before  we  reached  Boston,  the  porter 
brought  her  a  bunch  of  roses  that  he  had 
been  keeping  fresh  for  her  during  the  jour 
ney.  As  she  left  the  car,  I  was  close  behind 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  293 

her.  I  blush  here  in  my  bed  to  think  of 
my  impudence!  I  whispered  something 
about  a  rose.  Not  a  word  from  her,  nor  a 
turn  of  the  head.  She  was  met  on  the  plat 
form  by  a  gentleman  who  greeted  her  with 
the  warmth  of  a  relative,  but  surely  not  her 
husband.  I  followed  along  the  platform, 
and,  as  we  neared  the  end  of  it,  I  saw  some 
thing  drop,  stepped  forward  quickly  to  pick 
it  up  —  and  it  was  a  rose!  They  entered 
a  carriage  and  were  driven  rapidly  away. 
I  did  not  know  him,  I  did  not  know  her, 
and  I  went  out  to  Cambridge  to  find  my 
room  and  my  goods  and  chattels  looking 
rather  drearier  and  dingier  than  usual. 
When  the  term  closed,  I  was  invited  to 
spend  a  few  days  at  a  small  town  not  far 
from  Newport.  I  was  strolling  up  and 
down  the  platform,  having  a  last  puff  be 
fore  the  train  went,  when  I  heard  a  voice 


294  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

say:  "  Yes,  I  am  sure  it  is ;  that's  he  there!  " 
I  looked  about  me  to  see  who  this  mortal 
might  be,  and  saw  no  one  near.  Then  I 
looked  for  the  voice,  and  there  at  an  open 
window  were  the  brown  eyes  and  the  brown 
hair;  and  the  brown  eyes  looked  very 
friendly,  and  I  doffed  my  bonnet  to  the 
lady  of  the  rose,  and  she  smiled  back  a 
greeting.  When  the  train  started,  I  made 
my  way  to  that  car,  and  her  friend,  evidently 
warned  beforehand,  moved  to  another  seat, 
and  I  took  her  place.  I  began  with  apolo 
gies,  begged  that  before  anything  I  might 
make  myself  known  to  her.  It  is  a  con 
venient  thing,  I  found  then,  to  have  a  father 
whose  name  is  known  in  the  place  of  his 
habitation,  and  the  lady  knew  of  me  very 
soon,  though  we  were  then  together  for  the 
first  time.  We  got  on  together,  just  as  our 
eyes  had  prophesied,  and  I  was  asked  to 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  295 

call  at  her  sister's  house  in  Newport,  where 
she  was  to  spend  the  summer.  The  small 
town  I  went  to  seemed  dull  enough,  for  I 
was  itching  to  get  to  her.  I  remember 
writing  that  I  should  be,  on  a  certain  day, 
at  Hartmann's  —  if  I  remember  the  name. 
We  were  breakfasting,  a  friend  and  I, 
when  a  girl  on  horseback,  with  a  groom 
behind  her,  stopped  right  under  our  win 
dow.  I  was  soon  handed  a  note,  naming 
an  hour  to  call.  I  remember  the  note  — 
blue  paper,  nicely  written  in  a  firm,  even 
hand.  How  few  people  can  write  notes  or 
letters  nowadays.  It  is  shocking  to  see  the 
handwriting,  to  see  the  English,  the  punc 
tuation,  the  ignorance  of  even  elementary 
things,  in  the  notes  of  men  and  women 
who  are  of  a  status  in  society  and  with 
opportunities  to  know  better. 

It  is  needless  to  tell  how  I   posted  to 


296  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

that  house.  That  was  the  beginning.  It 
was  a  gem  of  a  little  visit,  with  a  walk  in 
the  rose-garden,  an  introduction  to  the 
father  and  the  married  sister,  an  invita 
tion  to  come  soon  again,  and  a  warm,  firm 
handshake  that  lingered  at  the  end.  I  was 
there  often  after  that,  and  common  inter 
ests  and  youth  and  very  unusual  quickness 
of  mind  on  her  part,  and  an  education  un 
like  that  of  any  other  girl  I  had  known,  and 
much  beauty  of  face  and  figure  soon  slaugh 
tered  my  peace  of  mind. 

The  next  winter  she  went  abroad  with 
her  father,  who  always  went  to  warmer 
climes  at  that  season,  and  we  exchanged 
letters  and  books,  and  —  again  I  blush  — 
I  used  to  send  her  my  verses  to  read! 
Those  were  days  when  I  lived  alone.  I 
was  poor,  my  degree  and  my  future  were 
important,  and  I  devoured  books  and  really 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  297 

worked.  Ten  hours  a  day  with  my  books 
is  not  an  exaggeration.  I  flooded  my 
brown-eyed  correspondent  with  book-lore, 
with  my  dreams,  with  a  new  poem,  say 
once  a  week,  and  she  in  turn  teased,  crit 
icised,  encouraged,  and,  as  I  thought,  was 
learning  to  find  me  indispensable,  as  I  hesi 
tated  not  to  admit  to  myself  she  was  to  me. 
Ah,  those  were  wholesome  days.  All  I 
know,  I  learned  then.  Greek,  Latin, 
French,  German,  Hebrew,  Aramaic,  a  lit 
tle  Italian,  science,  art,  history,  literature, 
biography,  anything  was  interesting  to  me 
then  if  I  did  not  know  it.  How  much 
there  was  I  did  not  know;  how  much  there 
is  I  do  not  know!  And  what  a  hodge-podge 
of  learning  I  stored  away.  Yes,  — 

"A  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 

And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  goddess  constant  and  glad." 


298  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

The  days  seemed  long  then  sometimes. 
How  short  they  get  as  we  grow  older!  It 
seemed  a  long  time  before  she  was  to  re 
turn  to  America,  and  each  day  was  a  link 
in  the  chain  of  my  longing,  and  seemed 
unduly  slow  in  getting  out  of  sight  over 
the  sun.  But  they  do  get  by  somehow,  and 
with  spring  came  the  lady.  She  always 
comes  with  spring;  not  so?  Again  I  saw 
much  of  her,  more  than  ever,  in  fact,  and 
it  seems  to  me  now,  as  I  look  back  upon 
it,  that  her  relatives  treated  me  in  some  sort 
as  un  fait  accompli.  The  next  winter  she 
stayed  alternately  with  a  sister  in  Boston 
and  a  sister  in  Baltimore,  and  I  cannot  say 
that  it  was  good  for  my  peace  of  mind. 
Just  what  I  \vas  looking  forward  to,  what 
I  expected,  what  I  hoped  about  her,  I  do 
not  know  now.  I  was  young;  I  had  more 
than  youth's  usual  amount  of  confidence 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

and  carelessness.  The  world  was  made  for 
me,  and  of  course  what  I  found  in  the 
world  that  suited  me  and  that  I  needed, 
I  was  to  take  —  the  world  intended  that  I 
should.  My  father  was  a  poor  man,  but 
he  had  always  known  everybody,  been 
everywhere,  entertained  all  the  lights  of  his 
own  and  kindred  professions,  and  I  suppose 
I  had  a  notion  that  as  men  needed  money, 
money  would  come.  I  am  strictly  truthful 
in  saying  that  no  youngster  ever  lived  who 
was  less  mercenary  than  I.  Money  meant 
nothing  to  me  then;  it  means  very  little 
to  me  now.  I  never  measured  anything  or 
thought  of  measuring  anything  by  any  scale 
of  dollars  and  cents. 

I  suppose  a  man's  blood  counts  for  some 
thing,  and  I  came  of  a  long  line  of  Southern 
ers,  who  have  been  soldiers  and  sailors  and 
loafers  and  professional  men,  but,  so  far  as 


300  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

we  can  get  back,  say  to  the  end  of  the  sev 
enteenth  century,  not  a  shopkeeper  amongst 
them,  more's  the  pity!  We  have  had  land 
and  niggers,  and  a  jovial  indifference  to 
consequences.  We  have  raised  peaches  and 
strawberries  and  mortgages,  and  probably 
rows,  without  end,  on  our  own  property, 
and  some  hundreds  of  acres  of  it,  as  you 
know,  I  still  have  in  the  same  undistin 
guished  but  unmercenaried  name.  This 
woman  was  part  of  my  life  then,  and  that 
was  about  all  I  thought  about  the  matter. 
When  you  are  just  getting  into  your  pro 
fession,  and  owe  a  year's  small  salary  in 
advance,  and  have  a  taste  for  sending  flow 
ers  and  buying  books,  and  a  way  of  going 
here  and  there  on  small  journeys,  with  noth 
ing  but  a  smiling  and  serene  trust  in  Provi 
dence  in  the  way  of  a  bank-account,  the 
marriage  part  of  the  programme  and  house 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  301 

rent  and  the  rest  seem  no  part  of  the 
dream.  However,  one  evening  I  was  in 
vited  to  the  house  in  Boston.  I  remember 
the  room  where  I  was  received.  She  was 
sitting  reading  beneath  a  tall  lamp.  I  re 
member  the  shimmering  look  of  the  masses 
of  her  hair;  I  remember,  as  she  rose  and 
came  toward  me  with  both  hands  out 
stretched,  that  I  thought  she  was  clothed 
in  clinging  amber-coloured  light.  We  were 
left  alone  for  some  two  hours.  My  profes 
sion,  which  to  me  then  was  a  sort  of  half- 
quixotic,  half-enthusiastic  rejoicing  in  my 
rapidly  developing  powers,  was  discussed. 
There  was  some  little  half-hidden  hinting 
that  I  might  change  my  calling,  which  as  I 
now  recall  it,  I  paid  little  heed  to  and 
brushed  aside  as  of  small  consequence.  I 
merely  loved  her  then  as  before,  selfishly. 
I  thought  nothing  of  what  she  might  be 


302  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

wishing  for  or  planning  for.  I  fear  I  did 
little  of  taking  the  world  into  my  confidence 
in  those  days,  when  my  easy  creed  was,  that 
the  world  belongs  to  those  who  take  it  for 
granted.  That  I  loved  her,  she  knew,  but 
I  did  not  take  her  into  my  confidence,  tell 
her  of  my  plans,  ask  her  if  what  I  was  doing 
and  proposing  to  do  pleased  her.  Mind  you, 
this  was  a  woman  of  many  suitors,  and  I 
saw  them  about  the  house  in  Boston,  in 
Newport,  in  Baltimore;  a  woman,  too,  of 
wit  and  beauty  and  wealth  and  much 
worldly  experience  for  one  of  her  years. 
How  I  should  have  thought  myself  so  all- 
sufficient  then,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
understand  now.  The  other  suitors  troubled 
me  no  more  than  had  they  been  pet  dogs; 
her  wealth  and  beauty  and  charm  of  man 
ner  seemed  to  me  what  I  wanted,  and  there 
I  stopped.  Perhaps  God  has  punished  me 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  303 

in  the  only  way  that  could  have  delivered 
me  from  that  unconscious  pride  in  my  own 
powers,  by  crippling  me,  stripping  me  of 
opportunity,  making  me  weak,  humbling 
me  into  the  very  dust  of  impotence. 

But  I  have  not  done.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  after  that  evening  she  was  less  and  less 
interested  in  me  and  my  doings.  I  did  not 
know  why,  —  so  blinded  may  a  man  be  to 
his  own  faults.  I  would  not  ask,  she  did  not 
volunteer  to  tell.  Finally  it  flashed  across 
me  that  I  was  poor,  that  perhaps  she  feared 
the  long  struggle  before  success  came,  that 
her  bringing  up  and  surroundings  made  my 
profession  distasteful  to  her.  Little  things 
flocked  into  memory.  A  word  here,  a  criti 
cism  there,  a  mocking  speech  at  this  or  that 
feature  of  my  professional  duties,  a  state 
ment  to  the  effect  that  she  had  heard  a 
classmate  of  a  clerical  friend  of  mine,  who 


304  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

was  a  hero  to  me  in  those  days,  say  that  the 
said  friend  was  a  snob;  these  and  a  half  a 
hundred  things  came  to  the  aid  of  my  sus 
picion.  So  this  is  the  truth,  this  is  the  real 
state  of  the  case,  I  said  to  myself,  then  so  let 
it  be.  I  became  half-hearted.  I  wrote  lit 
tle,  I  sent  no  flowers,  no  books,  no  verses,  I 
proposed  no  rides.  We  were  both  miser 
able;  certainly  I  was  miserable  and  lonely 
to  the  very  hilt.  After  weeks  of  this,  I  was 
formally  invited  again  to  call.  What  a 
dreary  day  it  was  in  the  early  spring  in 
Boston.  There  was  winter  in  every  breath 
of  air.  The  dirt  and  disorder  of  winter, 
packing  up  to  go,  were  everywhere.  It 
seemed  to  me  Boston  had  never  been  so  un 
kempt,  so  haggish-looking,  as  though  the 
town  itself  were  a  ragged,  careless,  elderly 
slattern. 

It  was  afternoon,  the  lights  had  not  been 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  305 

brought  into  the  room,  and  there  was  a 
sort  of  musty  twilight  effect.  She  had 
been  crying.  She  looked  older,  her  hair  did 
not  seem  so  fresh  and  alive,  and  her  eyes 
were  dull,  and  I  was  cold,  and  my  feet  felt 
wet,  and  there  was  no  comfort  in  my  clothes. 
We  shook  hands,  and  I  noticed  a  small 
hardwood  chest  on  a  table  near  her.  She 
took  a  key  and  unlocked  it.  There  was  a 
dried-up  rose  that  had  been  red,  on  top! 
Then  my  letters  in  neat  packages.  She 
handed  them  to  me  and  asked  if  I  would 
mind  returning  hers.  I  said  she  was  wel 
come  to  hers,  but  that  I  did  not  want  those 
on  the  table.  A  servant  came  in  with  a 
lamp,  and  then  another,  and  then  another, 
and  when  she  went  out  leaving  the  room 
all  bright,  my  lady  went  from  one  to  an 
other  putting  them  out.  I  fingered  over  the 
letters;  she  cried.  I  seemed  to  become  more 


306  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

and  more  physically  uncomfortable,  some 
thing  unknown  to  me  in  those  days.  I  felt 
that  my  feet  were  damp  and  chilled,  that 
my  nose  was  cold,  that  my  hands  were 
clammy.  My  brain  was  not  heated  nor  ex 
cited,  but  seemed  numb.  I  was  saying 
good-bye,  and  giving  up  things  I  wanted, 
and  being  torn  inside  out,  and  I  was  a  clod 
hopper.  I  could  not  explain  myself  to  my 
self  or  to  her.  Her  face  had  become  unat 
tractive  with  its  tears,  her  supple,  strong 
hand,  that  I  had  often  admired,  was  mouldy 
to  the  touch.  She  was  no  longer  agreeable 
to  me  physically  even,  and  I  was  as  death 
in  my  own  eyes.  I  hung  on  with  a  maudlin 
feeling  that  the  fire  would  blaze  forth  of 
itself,  that  the  lamps  would  relight  them 
selves,  that  the  room  would  get  warm,  that 
I  would  become  alive  again,  that  she  would 
smile  and  drown  me  in  her  loveliness,  as  she 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  307 

had  done  so  often  before.  But  the  atmos 
phere  changed  not,  she  changed  not,  I 
changed  not.  I  became  colder  and  colder 
and  more  and  more  dumb,  and  finally,  I 
kissed  her  hand  and  stumbled  out  of  the 
room  and  out  of  the  house  and  back  to  Cam 
bridge,  and  I  slept  on  the  floor  in  my  clothes 
in  front  of  my  fire  that  night.  I  think  that 
was  the  first  time  that  my  nerves,  and  my 
nerve,  were  shattered.  I  have  never  seen 
that  woman  since  that  afternoon,  that  miser 
able  afternoon. 

I  loved  her  then  as  much  as  ever  I  did, 
but  my  heart  locked  itself  up,  that  awful 
inheritance  of  impassiveness,  of  outward 
coldness  and  pride  got  the  best  of  me, 
and  I  lost  the  only  sweet  thing  I  ever 
had  in  my  life.  You  know  my  life  since 
then,  though  you  never  knew  that  part 
of  it,  and  no  one  else  ever  knew  it  till 


308  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

now.  I  pulled  myself  together  and  went 
on.  I  conquered  the  small  world  of  my 
own  profession.  I  often  wondered  if  she 
was  in  front  of  me  here  or  there  where 
I  spoke,  if  she  saw  my  name  in  the  papers, 
if  she  ever  understood,  if  she  really  loved 
me  as  I  loved  her.  Strange  that  in  so  small 
a  world  I  never  saw  her  again  even  by  acci 
dent.  Once  or  twice  I  met  one  or  another 
of  her  relatives,  and  then  I  heard  that  she 
had  married  some  man  in  New  York.  He 
was  rich,  I  heard,  and  lived  among  men  and 
women  whose  interests  were  worlds  apart 
from  mine.  I  do  not  know  his  name  or  hers. 
I  do  not  know  where  they  are,  or  what  they 
are,  or  what  they  do,  or  whether  there  are 
children.  I  only  know  what  I  have  told 
you.  No  woman  has  been  a  temptation  to 
me  since  then.  I  have  been  worked  like  a 
pack-horse  by  my  own  success.  My  hours 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  309 

have  been  long,  my  engagements  many,  my 
holidays  none.  I  was  getting  along  at  a  fine 
pace  professionally,  when  my  energy,  my 
nerves,  my  ambition,  and  my  back,  were  all 
broken  in  a  moment,  and  here  I  am. 

I  am  amazingly  interested  in  you  now.  I 
am  of  no  interest  to  myself  or  anybody  else, 
unless  it  be  to  you,  these  days.  I  would  save 
you  from  my  miseries  if  I  could.  I  would 
atone  for  my  selfishness  in  the  past,  for  my 
self-centredness,  by  giving  what  I  have  left 
of  life  to  bring  peace  and  perchance  happi 
ness  to  another.  I  thank  you  for  the  confi 
dence  that  bade  you  send  me  copies  of  those 
letters.  So  much  advice  is  wasted  in  this 
world  because  so  often  the  confessor  is  only 
told  half  the  story,  only  knows  half  the 
problem.  If  my  poor  little  story  of  the  sad 
ness  of  my  life  strengthens  the  bond  be 
tween  us,  makes  you  know  something  of  the 


3io  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

genuineness  of  my  sympathy,  the  telling  of 
it  will  not  have  been  in  vain.  Then,  too, 
I  would  not  have  you  think  that  I  would 
not  repose  the  same  confidence  in  you  that 
you  have  reposed  in  me.  What  there  is  of 
me  I  offer  to  solace  your  grief,  and,  if  pos 
sible,  to  comfort  you  as  you  walk  amidst 
the  ruins  through  which  I  have  walked 
these  years  past.  But  best  of  all,  if  it  could 
happen  that  you  should  see  some  better 
way,  and  slough  off  all  this,  and  come  out 
of  it  a  better  and  a  stronger,  and  withal 
a  kindlier  man,  then  verily  I  should  feel 
almost  as  though  I  were  living  on  in  you. 

I  am,  my  dear  Douglas,  how  well  you 
must  know  it  now, 

Affectionately  yours, 

PERCY  DASHIEL. 


TWENTIETH    LETTER 

DEAR  PERCY  :  — 

Bless  you  for  the  best  man  God  ever 
made.  For  you  to  search  in  the  past  for  a 
story  that  reflects  no  credit  on  yourself,  so 
as  to  make  me  feel  less  lonely,  is  to  show  a 
friendship  of  which  a  woman  could  not 
conceive.  Imagine  a  woman  throwing  mud 
at  herself  in  order  to  make  an  erring 
woman-friend  feel  less  isolated.  Have  you 
never  noticed  how  a  reference  to  a  woman's 
friendship  for  a  woman,  brings  to  the  face 
of  a  man  a  sad  smile?  He  knows,  whether 
analyst  or  not,  that  in  its  best  sense  no  such 
thing  exists.  A  woman  judges  a  man  with 
allowances.  She  never  makes  any  for  her 
own  sex.  The  fact  that  she  has  resisted  a 

3" 


312  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

temptation,  before  which  another  woman 
has  fallen,  hardens  her  heart  for  all  time. 
No  woman  ever  took  a  bird's-eye  view  of 
another  woman's  life;  her  mental  stand  is 
too  close  to  everything  she  studies.  For  her 
a  fly-speck  on  a  big  canvas  would  spoil  the 
picture,  and  so  a  woman's  judgment  of  an 
other  is  valueless,  and  the  least  clever  of 
men  intuitively  knows  this.  In  her  affection 
for  one  of  her  sex,  the  spirit  of  good-fellow 
ship  is  lacking.  The  live  and  let  live  theory, 
the  capacity  to  forget  and  forgive  right 
royally,  is  altogether  wanting,  and  what  re 
mains  is  the  feeling  that  if  she  is  not  as  I 
am,  she  is  not  as  she  should  be.  Her  great 
est  happiness  is  to  forgive  a  man  and  con 
demn  a  woman.  A  woman  will  live  with  a 
drunken  and  brutal  husband  until  his 
death,  will  hide  his  and  her  shame  during 
life,  and  sanctify  his  memory  afterward. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  313 

when  she  would  not  forgive  her  sister  for 
the  slightest  step  aside  from  the  path  she 
trod  herself.  Is  it  that  because,  where  a 
man  is  concerned,  there  is  always  a  possibil 
ity  of  ownership,  or  ownership  itself,  that 
could  never  exist  with  others  of  her  own  age 
and  sex,  that  makes  her  forgiving  on  the 
ground  that,  what  is  mine  is  best?  —  I 
wonder. 

I  cannot  imagine  that  you  have  been  all 
these  years  alone  with  an  unspeakable  grief, 
you,  with  your  helping  hand,  your  infinite 
tenderness  and  smiling  encouragement  for 
others.  Oh,  the  pity  of  it! 

One's  first  impression  of  the  earth  is  that 
it  is  large,  mountains  seem  high,  rivers 
seem  broad,  —  it  is  a  mistake.  The  earth 
in  the  universe  is  less  than  a  pin-point,  and 
on  its  surface  is  but  one  big  thing,  and  that 
is  mankind's  capacity  for  suffering.  You 


314  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

cannot  overrate  suffering,  it  is  limitless.  In 
days  gone  by  the  law  limited  the  sum  pos 
sible  to  be  recovered  by  survivors  for  the 
loss  of  a  member  of  the  family  to  five  thou 
sand  dollars.  You  might  lose  both  eyes  and 
recover  fifty  thousand  dollars.  There  was 
a  limit  to  death  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  but 
none  to  suffering. 

Your  letter  has  accomplished  that  which 
you  intended.  I  am  less  lonely.  As  you 
know  there  is  no  room  in  my  heart  for 
aught  but  love  of  her,  but  to  it  is  attached 
a  pendant  of  unspeakable  value  —  your 
friendship.  You  are  indeed  made  in  the 
image  of  God.  Thank  you  this  time  for  no 
word  of  condemnation.  There  is  too  much 
condemnatory  criticism  in  the  world  and 
too  little  praise.  With  us  criticism  is  always 
censure.  There  are  more  men  who  can  be 
encouraged  by  a  word  of  appreciation  than 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  315 

can  be  driven  to  greater  effort  by  a  curse. 
I  am  so  glad  that  you  approve  of  my  having 
told  you  the  whole  story  and  left  nothing  in 
reserve.  An  expressio  falsi  is  bad,  a  sup- 
presio  veri  is  worse,  but  a  half  truth  is  the 
worst  of  all.  The  intention  to  deceive  is 
so  apparent. 

As  for  me,  I  have  been  broken  on  the 
wheel  of  passion.  It  does  seem  sometimes 
as  if  the  Lord's  punishments  were  in  excess 
of  the  crime.  Has  my  life  of  rectitude  in 
the  past  no  favour  in  His  eyes?  How  many 
virtues  does  it  take  to  equal  one  fault,  and 
how  many  people  have  asked  themselves 
this  same  question?  One's  debit  and  credit 
account  never  seem  to  balance,  the  book 
keeping  in  heaven  is  complicated.  All  I 
know  is  that  the  breech-block  at  the  base  of 
my  brain  is  loosened,  the  rivets  of  my  whole 
moral  nature  rattle  and  I  long  for  peace. 


3i6  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

The  love  of  peace  may  be  an  acquired  taste, 
for  some  of  the  natural-born  fighters  of  the 
world,  but  it  is  easily  acquired;  all  you  need 
is  the  commonest  of  things,  just  trouble  all 
your  life.  I  get  no  rest,  for  I  seem  to  be  in 
a  state  of  vibration  as  the  result  of  a  great 
shock;  indeed,  this  is  a  world  of  unrest.  I 
believe  even  inanimate  things  suffer  from 
vibration,  —  a  rock  is  jarred  by  the  heating 
of  the  earth's  heart,  ah!  but  how  a  great 
boulder  fills  you  with  respect!  —  something 
to  which  a  thousand  years  is  as  a  split  sec 
ond.  Do  not  mind  if  my  letter  seems  dis 
jointed.  I  am  writing  more  for  my  sake 
than  for  yours.  I  must  be  disjointed,  for 
mentally  I  have  fallen  apart.  This  will 
rectify  itself  in  time,  I  suppose,  so  I  will 
not  add  to  your  worries.  The  acme  of  all 
selfishness  is  to  add  to  a  real  trouble  an 
imaginary  or  ephemeral  grievance.  I  was 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  317 

talking  to  a  man  to-day,  and  I  knew  by 
something  he  said  he  expected  me  to  laugh. 
I  did  so.  You  watch  an  infant  —  it  smiles 
—  you  say  to  yourself,  Ah,  but  the  angels 
who  can  talk  the  only  language  it  can 
understand  are  great  wits!  But  the  nurse 
says  no.  What  you  think  is  a  smile,  is 
caused  by  colic.  That  is  the  way  I  smiled 
to  him,  for  I  have  colic  of  the  heart.  After 
all,  life  is  a  diminuendo  of  laughs.  I  used 
to  laugh  a  great  deal,  but  if  I  tried  now, 
I  would  feel  as  foolish  as  a  man  who  ven 
tured  to  sing  without  a  voice. 

So  you  see  I  cannot  laugh,  I  cannot  care, 
and  am  as  useless  to  myself  and  others  as 
a  goldfish  in  a  bowl,  —  and  to  think  I  once 
was  happy.  When  next  I'm  happy,  God 
give  me  sense  to  realise  it  at  the  time. 

It  may  interest  you  to  know  I  am  drink 
ing  a  little  bit  again,  not  in  a  way  that  would 


318  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

disgust  you,  but  simply  the  furnace  in  me 
that  generates  vitality  needs  more  fuel.  A 
man  can  set  brandy  afire  and  so  can  brandy 
a  man.  Honours  are  easy  between  them. 
If  I  continue,  however,  my  constitution  will 
go,  and  I  shall  have  to  live  on  my  by-laws, 
as  Choate  said.  By  the  way,  alcohol  reminds 
me  of  a  French  courier:  he  permits  no  one 
else  to  rob  you,  so  he  may  rob  you  himself. 
A  drinking  man  always  dies  of  drink. 
However,  whether  in  athletics  or  alcohol, 
it  is  the  ounce  more  or  less  that  counts,  and 
I  am  avoiding  the  ounce  more. 

Percy,  why  did  she  dismiss  me?    Riddle 
me  that.    Was  it  caprice? 

"  Ladies,  ladies,  when  you  fly, 
The  men  they  will  pursue, 
But  if  you  pity  when  they  sigh, 
Alas  !  they'll  fly  from  you." 

I  cannot  believe  it;  she  is  not  the  sort  of 
woman  that  would  let  go  a  rock  to  grasp 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  319 

a  cloud.  As  for  longing  to  be  able  to  look 
her  husband  straight  in  the  eye  again,  what 
nonsense!  a  woman  can  do  that  better  when 
she  is  lying  than  at  any  other  time.  Do  you 
know  that  to  express  the  words  "  flattery  " 
and  "  treachery "  the  Chinese  employ  in 
their  writing  the  character  meaning 
"woman?"  Permit  me  to  add  that  the 
Chinese  are  old  enough  as  a  nation  to  make 
their  knowledge  of  human  nature  unques 
tionable.  This  is  only  interesting  because 
it's  true,  —  that  they  do. 

Again  I  say,  riddle  me  this,  it  will  require 
no  labour.  For  a  man  to  make  a  study  of 
men  is  an  effort.  When  he  thinks  of  women 
he  simply  draws  cheques  on  his  memory.  If 
only  as  a  priest,  you  must  have  had  phe 
nomenal  opportunities  to  learn  the  intrica 
cies  of  a  woman's  mind.  Let  the  priest 
come  out  of  his  confessional  and  tell  me 


320  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

what  he  knows.  What  is  a  breach  of  confi 
dence  but  a  breach  of  good  manners  after 
all?  I  have  been  a  fool  and  you  tell  me  you 
have  been  also.  I  have  sinned;  come,  sin 
yourself.  You  have  proved  your  friendship 
so  far,  but  if  a  thing's  worth  doing,  it  is 
worth  doing  well.  You  won't  miss  your 
heaven,  never  fear.  I  believe  when  we  all 
get  in  heaven,  we'll  turn  around  and  say: 
"Scissors!  if  we  had  known  getting  here 
was  so  easy  we  would  have  had  a  better  time 
on  the  world  below." 

Of  course,  I  am  living  at  home  now, 
which  does  not  make  things,  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  any  easier.  On  my  arrival, 
after  my  wife  had  used  my  mouth  as  a 
door-mat  on  which  to  wipe  her  lips,  she 
asked  me  if  I  had  had  a  "  nice  time."  I 
nearly  laughed  aloud.  It  reminded  me  of 
the  New  England  woman  who,  after  gaz- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  321 

ing  in  silence  at  the  sublimity  of  the  Falls 
of  Niagara,  made  her  only  comment: 
"  Well,  them's  very  nice  falls  for  them  as 
likes  falls."  I,  forsooth,  who  have  been 
a  chip  circling  on  the  outer  edges  of  a  mael 
strom,  was  asked  if  I  had  had  a  "  nice  time." 
I  believe  tact  is  the  capacity  to  think 
ahead  —  before  you  speak  and  before  you 
act.  Mrs.  Dayton  usually  reverses  this 
process.  However,  I  have  tried  tc  be  as 
considerate  as  I  knew  how,  but  Percy,  more 
men's  brains  have  been  worn  threadbare  by 
trying  to  please  a  woman  than  ever  were  by 
vice.  If  she  were  not  so  aggressively  good, 
if  she  would  only  make  a  dent  in  her  moral 
nature,  she  would  be  more  possible.  Even 
for  her  goodness  I  cannot  give  her  due 
credit,  for  she  has  never  been  tempted.  The 
difference  between  a  good  man  and  a  good 
woman  is,  that  the  man  is  only  good  when 


322  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

temptations  have  ceased  to  be  such  and  the 
woman  only  when  no  temptations  come  her 
way.  She  is  now  making  a  strenuous  study 
of  Wagner's  music  and  Christian  Science. 
How  those  two  thoughts  can  go  to  bed  in 
the  same  brain,  is  beyond  me  to  understand. 
I  never  met  any  one  who  so  much  wanted  to 
be  what  God  never  intended  she  should  be. 
We  simply  cannot  pull  together.  Oxen, 
when  they  have  a  heavy  load  to  draw,  often 
lean  against  one  another,  so  focussing  their 
.  power;  it  is  wise  —  but  they  are  not  mar 
ried. 

My  life  here,  well,  you  can  guess  better 
than  I  can  tell  you.  One  argument  in 
favour  of  there  being  no  hereafter,  is  the 
fact  that  most  of  us  get  our  heaven  or  hell 
in  this  world,  so  another  place  simply  for 
the  purpose  of  rewards  or  punishments 
seems  such  an  unnecessary  expense. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  323 

Tuesday,  the  fifteenth. 

Not  another  line  from  her;  do  you  sup 
pose  she  means  our  separation  to  be  really 
final?  Suspense  is  my  bete  noir.  If,  in  the 
world  to  come,  one  gets  the  punishment  one 
dislikes  the  most,  I  shall  be  kept  waiting  for 
an  eternity,  not  knowing  to  which  place  I 
have  been  assigned. 

As  I  was  writing  the  above  my  wife 
brought  me  in  a  note  from  Mrs.  B.  I  don't 
think  my  wife  has  ever  brought  me  a  note 
before,  but  she  selected  this  one  as  her  first 
effort  in  that  line.  A  woman's  curiosity  is 
never  wasted,  for  it's  guided  by  the  Devil. 
However,  no  harm  was  done.  I  simply 
waited  till  she  had  gone  before  opening  it, 
not,  however,  before  she  had  asked  me 
whether  it  was  a  circular,  adding:  "You 
know  they  do  up  circulars  so  nicely  nowa 
days." 


324  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

All  I  read  was :  "  I  shall  be  at  home  at 
four.  Come  to  me."  Percy,  when  she 
wrote  those  three  words,  "  Come  to  me," 
she  dipped  her  pen  in  music. 

After  a  formal  greeting,  I  asked  her: 

"  Why  did  you  dismiss  me?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  No,  but  tell  me  the  whole  truth." 

"  I  don't  know,  —  it  was  an  experiment." 

"  An  experiment  to  see  if  you  could  do 
without  me?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  know  your  experiment  might 
have  killed  me?  Suicide  was  perilously 
near  my  thoughts;  did  you  never  think  of 
the  possible  results  of  your  test?  " 

"  When  a  woman  is  deciding  for  herself, 
she  never  thinks  of  others." 

"  Practically  you  took  time  and  oppor 
tunity  to  vivisect  your  heart  in  order  to 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  325 

weigh  the  amount  of  your  feeling  for  me,  to 
gauge  its  density  and  make  sure  of  its  duc 
tile  strength." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"  And  what  decision  have  you  reached?  " 

"  None." 

"  Then  why  did  you  recall  me?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,  just  to  see  "  — 

"  Oh!  "  I  exclaimed,  "  just  to  see  if  your 
feeling  for  me  rose  like  mercury  from  heat, 
—  the  heat  engendered  by  propinquity. 
How  interesting,  how  impersonal!  You 
should,  if  you  propose  to  call  yourself  a 
Christian,  give  up  vivisection  and  wait  un 
til  your  subjects  are  dead  before  you  begin 
to  dissect." 

"  I  was  not  vivisecting  you,  but  myself." 

"Oh,  I  quite  understand!  But,  as  usual, 
you  were  the  operator,  but  I  felt  the  pain." 

"  It's  hard  pleasing  men.    It  seems  when 


326  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

you  do  what  you,  against  your  better  judg 
ment,  think  will  give  them  the  greatest 
pleasure,  it  is  the  way  you  have  done  it  that 
seems  to  give  them  more  annoyance  than 
you  ever  hoped  they  would  feel  delight. 
Women,  being  intelligent,  look  at  results, 
men  always  accept  a  result  and  then  analyse 
the  means  by  which  it  was  reached.  The 
platitude  that  men  are  dense  is  true.  Men 
have  often  forgotten  to  enjoy  the  exclusive 
happiness  of  their  election  while  they 
scanned  the  '  returns.' ' 

As  she  talked,  she  smiled  and  plumed  her 
hands  as  they  lay  like  bits  of  sculpture  in 
her  lap. 

"  Did  you  never  give  me  a  thought  dur 
ing  all  that  time?  "  I  inquired. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  smilingly.  "  If  one 
starts  to  think  of  oneself,  one  has  very  little 
time  to  think  of  others." 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  327 

"  But  you  knew  I  loved  you,  and  to  be 
left  lamenting  —  " 

"  I  realised  the  fact  that '  Men  have  died 
from  time  to  time  and  worms  have  eaten 
them  —  but  not  for  love.'  There  again,  you 
see,  results  seemed  to  me  of  more  impor 
tance  than  the  patient's  temporary  pains. 
There  is  such  a  thing  as  absent  treatment, 
so  there  may  be  an  absent  operation.  I  was 
giving  you  one  and  "  (she  laughed)  "  I  find 
you  vastly  improved.  Some  decisions  are 
quite  as  painful  as  incisions,  and  I  thought 
mine  would  give  you  happiness." 

"  And  may  I  ask  what  your  decision  may 
be?" 

"  Certainly  not,  for  I  have  not  decided." 

"  But  you  have  just  said,"  I  began. 

"  How  many  poor,  tired  women  have 
heard  those  words,  '  But  you  have  just  said.' 
Women  are  not  human  exponents  of  geo- 


328  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

metrical  progression.  Because  you  can  say 
to  yourself  in  regard  to  any  problem,  two, 
four,  eight,  sixteen,  thirty-two,  and  all  the 
rest,  it  does  not  follow  a  woman  can.  She 
loves  to  think  that  six  and  eleven  make 
twenty,  and  the  joke  of  it  is  that  with  her 
they  generally  do.  After  a  man's  master 
mind  has  told  him  what  a  thing  should  be, 
a  woman's  illogical  quickness  tells  her  what 
it  is.  Do  smile,"  she  continued.  "  Do 
smile,  or  I  shall  cry;  there  is  only  a  twist  of 
the  face  between  a  smile  and  a  tear." 

"  I  cannot  understand  your  mood,"  I 
murmured. 

"  Why  try?  I  thought  you  were  too 
clever;  the  language  of  a  woman's  heart  is 
not  a  dead  language,  for  it  never  existed, 
I  thought  you  knew  that." 

"  Do  you  intend  everything  to  be  as  it  has 
been?" 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  329 

"  I  don't  intend  anything.  I  only  know 
it  was  necessary  for  me  to  see  your  face,  and 
I  sent  for  you.  Be  satisfied  and  rejoice  that 
you  are  here.  If  a  man  only  knew  when 
not  to  press  a  woman  to  a  decision,  the  de 
cision  she  arrived  at  would  probably  be  in 
his  favour." 

The  advice  was  good,  and  I  was  silent 
—  silent  so  long  that  I  won  her  back.  I 
can  write  no  more. 

God  be  merciful  to  me,  a  happy  sinner. 

Wednesday,   the   twenty -third. 

In  the  continuation  of  this,  my  letter,  I 
shall  make  no  effort  to  analyse  my  feelings; 
it  would  be  impossible.  I  shall  simply  state 
the  facts  as  they  occurred. 

I  went  to  Tuxedo  for  Sunday,  having 
made  the  engagement  in  advance  of  our  re 
union.  Whom  should  I  meet  on  the  train 


330  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

returning  Monday  morning  but  B.?  He 
came  into  the  smoking  compartment  where 
I  sat  alone,  and  chatted  with  me  uninter 
ruptedly  to  Jersey  City.  What  I  said  is  un 
important.  Some  of  the  things  he  said  I 
shall  try  to  repeat  to  you:  — 

"  Children  are  perhaps  worth  while  sav 
ing;  it's  a  gamble,  —  there  is  a  glimmer 
of  light  in  every  one's  life,  man  or  woman, 
and  I  hate  to  think  they  may  miss  it.  But 
most  men  and  women  have  had  their  glim 
mer  and  had  not  sense  enough  to  know  it 
at  the  time.  That  was  my  case,  but  it  was 
not  my  wife,  as  you  may  probably  conjec 
ture.  It  was  a  girl  in  her  'teens  who  found 
me  malleable  iron  and  left  me  corrugated 
steel,  set  in  wrinkles  for  all  time."  There 
he  laughed  at  the  recollection,  and  speak 
ing  of  luck,  added:  "  Some  men  are  struck 
with  shafts  of  light  and  some  with  poisoned 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  331 

arrows.  The  really  great  man  bows  to  his 
God,  if  he  has  one,  and  the  other  bows  to 
Fate.  The  only  thing  worth  doing  well  is 
to  live  this  life  gracefully,  and  in  this  I 
have  signally  failed.  You  will  smile  when 
I  tell  you  that  when  I  was  young  I  set  my 
standards  too  high.  I  broke  my  toe-nails 
and  my  finger-nails  trying  to  get  to  the  top 
landing,  without  thought  of  the  intermedi 
ate  steps.  When  I  knew  it  was  futile,  I 
sat  down  on  a  step  very  near  the  bottom 
and  rocked  myself  with  laughter.  I  re 
membered  Queen  Elizabeth's  couplet:  — 

"  '  If  thy  heart  fail  thee, 
Climb  not  at  all.' 

"  It  was  the  girl  in  her  'teens  who  did 
this;  she  left  me  with  no  love  except  for 
myself  —  and  ambition's  only  permanent 
prod  is  a  love  for  others.  I  tell  you  this 
because  you  love  my  wife  and  I  don't. 


332  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

A  man  who  cannot  look  a  fact  in  the  face, 
should  not  brag  that  he  can  look  a  man  in 
the  face.  There  are  more  males  afraid  of  a 
little  fact  than  of  a  big  man.  I  am  not  one 
of  those.  It  is  not  your  fault  that  you  love 
my  wife,  nor  hers  that  she  thinks  she  loves 
you,  nor  mine  that  I  love  neither.  It  is  sim 
ply  a  little  fact  that  I  accept.  Of  course, 
having  a  high  regard  for  the  conventionali 
ties,  if  I  thought  you  had  done  me  a  dis 
honour,  I  might  resent  it.  Many  women 
whom  others  think  guilty,  I  think  innocent, 
because  the  marvellous  thing  about  love  is 
the  infinite. delicacy  of  all  that  leads  up  to 
it,  and  the  infinite  indelicacy  of  its  final  ex 
pression.  The  saving  grace  of  decency  has 
kept  many  a  wroman  in  the  straight  path. 
You  doubtless  wonder  how  I  can  talk  this 
way;  it  is  only  because  facts,  not  sentiments, 
interest  me.  A  fact  is  a  truth,  and  both  are 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  333 

always  undressed.  I  have  a  naked  mind; 
everything  in  the  way  of  clothing  has  been 
torn  from  it.  Perhaps  I  bore  you.  Will 
you  have  a  smoke?  "  And  here  he  offered 
me  the  cigarette-case  he  had  with  him  the 
day  of  the  fire.  Then  he  continued :  "  What 
I  dislike  about  you  —  and  there  are  many 
things  I  like  —  is  that  you  are  a  hypocrite 
and  won't  acknowledge  it  to  yourself.  You 
belong  to  that  class  of  men  who  do  not  en 
joy  being  called  hypocrites,  but  who,  in 
public,  daily  condemn  in  others  what  they 
do  themselves  in  private.  To  parody,  — 
more  men  have  *  done  bad  by  stealth  and 
blushed  to  find  it  shame '  than  would  an 
swer  the  description  of  Pope's  flattering 
line.  Let  me  show  you  your  conventional 
sense  of  honour;  let  me  show  you  what  it 
amounts  to  —  if  you  can  learn  to  hate  the 
husband  as  much  as  you  love  the  wife,  you 


334  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

are  absolved  in  the  eyes  of  your  confreres. 
Is  it  not  so?  '  For  Dayton  is  (then)  an 
honourable  man.  So  are  they  all,  all  hon 
ourable  men.'  I  have  some  sympathy  for 
criminals,  but  none  for  hypocrites.  God 
makes  criminals,  but  hypocrites  make  them 
selves.  The  only  code  of  honour  is  the  one 
that  is  all  truth;  the  conventional  code  is 
a  soothing  poultice  to  wicked  inclinations. 
However,  I  should  not  criticise  you,  for 
normal  people  should  confine  their  criti 
cisms  to  normal  people — normals  are  in  the 
minority,  remember  that,  and  remember 
that  I  am  one.  Be  kind  to  children,  and 
let  the  rest  of  the  world  be  kind  to  itself." 
This  is  all  that  I  can  recall  of  his  conver 
sation,  and  it  leaves  me  no  nearer  to  the 
solution  of  this  man's  character  than  I  was 
before.  When  we  reached  the  ferry-boat, 
we  walked  to  the  forward  end  of  the  men's 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  335 

side  and  smoked.  B.  was  unaccountably  si 
lent  as  we  leaned  over  the  rail,  after  having 
been  so  loquacious,  and  he  kept  looking 
back  over  my  shoulder.  At  last  he  touched 
me  and  said :  "  Look  there ;  see  that  drunken 
mother  holding  her  baby  over  the  railing. 
When  she  first  did  so,  her  arms  were  around 
its  waist,  then  around  its  buttocks,  and  now 
around  its  ankles.  In  a  moment  more  I 
shall  take  that  child  from  her.  By  God! " 
he  cried,  "  too  late!  "  I  turned  just  in  time 
to  see  the  little  one  drop  like  a  plummet 
into  the  water.  In  an  instant  B.  was  stand 
ing  on  the  railing,  and  had  dived  into  the 
river's  brown  depths.  Could  he  clear  the 
wheel  was  the  question. 

Some  called  to  the  captain :  "  Child  over 
board!  Stop  her!  Back  her!"  while  I 
with  others  ran  aft.  No  sign  of  baby  — 
no  sign  of  man.  A  moment  more  and  I  saw 


336  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

a  tinge  of  red  amid  the  brown,  and  a  head 
appeared,  from  which  blood  flowed  freely, 
but  in  B.'s  upraised  arms,  as  he  floated, 
he  held  the  baby  unharmed.  We  had 
stopped  and  backed,  but  a  tug  was  too 
quick  for  us,  and  B.  and  the  child  were 
on  its  deck  before  we  reached  the  spot.  The 
tug  steamed  up  to  us,  and  the  little  one  was 
handed  to  its  now  sobered  mother.  I  leaped 
aboard  the  tug,  and  bade  the  captain  put 
on  all  steam  and  go  to  the  foot  of  26th 
Street.  B.  lay  on  the  after-deck,  and  from 
a  wound  in  his  head  the  blood  came  freely. 

He  smiled  as  I  came  toward  him,  and 
said,  with  a  low,  exultant  note  in  his  voice: 
"  Dayton,  I  don't  care  a  damn  if  I  die.  I 
have  been  some  good  in  the  world  at  last. 
I  have  saved  the  life  of  a  child,  not  a 
woman's  nor  a  man's,  but  a  child's." 

What  to  do,  I  did  not  know.    I  sat  down 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  337 

on  the  deck  and  took  his  head  in  my  lap, 
holding  the  wound  firmly  closed  with  a 
piece  of  ice  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand.  He 
was  silent,  but  constantly  smiled,  as  one 
does  when  one  hears  good  news.  When  we 
got  to  the  dock  at  26th  Street,  a  good-na 
tured  Irish  policeman  rang  for  an  ambu 
lance.  He  looked  at  the  quiet  form  and  the 
closed  eyes  of  B.,  and  said:  "  Poor  fellow, 
he'll  not  live,  sure  his  head's  broke." 

"  You  lie,"  said  B.,  opening  his  eyes. 
"  Go  bang  some  poor  child  on  the  head 
with  your  club,  and  don't  stand  maunder 
ing  there." 

But  I  could  not  smile;  the  policeman's 
prophecy  had  startled  me,  and  a  thousand 
thoughts  raced  through  my  brain.  Was  it 
possible  that  what  I  had  supposed  was  a 
scalp  wound  was  a  fractured  skull?  What 
if  he  died  —  what  then? 


338  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

The  ambulance  came,  and  an  untidy 
youngster  with  an  imperious  manner,  but 
without  dignity,  looked  him  over  carelessly, 
and  then  remarked  in  a  chipper  way:  "  No 
drunk  here;  he's  a  case  for  the  hospital. 
Dump  him  in."  I  asked  permission  to  sit 
by  his  side,  which  was  gracelessly  granted. 
All  through  the  drive  to  the  hospital,  B. 
lay  silent  and  with  closed  eyes,  but  gone 
was  the  old  smile  of  his  contemptuous  self 
I  knew  so  well,  and  in  its  place  something 
much  pleasanter  to  look  upon.  On  arrival, 
the  doctor  there  made  a  careful  examina 
tion,  and,  turning  to  me,  having  heard  my 
story,  said:  "  He  got  a  glancing  blow  from 
the  paddle-wheel,  but  enough  to  produce 
a  fracture.  We'll  perform  an  operation  as 
soon  as  possible,  but,  in  the  meantime,  if 
he  has  any  family,  send  for  them,  as  I  can 
not  tell  what  will  happen." 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  339 

I  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Mrs.  B.,  and 
told  her  plainly  the  facts,  adding  that  I 
would  await  her  arrival.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  before  she  came.  She  had  been 
shopping  and  at  a  luncheon,  and  could  not 
be  found.  She  came  in  at  last,  her  face 
aflame.  It  was  like  her  to  look  red  when 
another  woman  would  have  looked  white. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  the  blood  had  left 
her  heart  for  her  face.  The  operation  had 
been  performed,  and  he  was  conscious  but 
languid.  "Where  is  he?"  she  asked.  I 
pointed.  What  passed  between  them,  I  do 
not  know,  nor  naturally  do  I  expect  to  ever. 
In  about  fifteen  minutes,  she  came  to  the 
door  and  said:  "  He  wants  to  speak  to  you." 
I  went  in  and  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
she  at  his  side.  Percy,  can  you  imagine  the 
position  we  were  in? 

Looking  at  me  with  the  same  old  wicked 


340  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

smile,  he  haltingly  said:  "  Dayton,  I'm  off 
on  the  '  out  trail ' ;  I  know  it.  Now  is  your 
chance,  old  chap;  sorry  you're  married,  but 
that  has  never  complicated  matters  for  you." 
And  his  blue  lips  parted  in  a  grin.  He 
looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and,  sighing, 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  A  moment 
later  he  shivered,  raised  his  arm  and  let  it 
fall.  I  ran  for  the  doctor.  He  went  to  the 
foot  of  the  bed  close  to  the  wall  and  looked 
in  his  face.  "Take  her  away;  he's  gone. 
You  can  bring  her  back  in  a  little  while," 
he  said.  I  beckoned  to  Mrs.  B.,  and  like 
a  submissive  child  she  followed.  We  sat 
and  waited  silently  in  an  anteroom.  What 
do  people  think  of  in  such  moments?  — 
nothing.  For  once  the  brain  is  blank,  and 
simply  ticks  in  unison  with  the  clock  on 
the  mantel.  The  doctor  motioned  for  us 
to  return.  We  went  in,  and  there  lay  B., 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  341 

looking  as  he  might  have  looked  when  he 
knew  the  "  girl  in  her  'teens,"  but  can  you 
conceive  it,  Percy?  they  had  propped  his 
chin  up  with  a  book,  on  the  face  of  which 
in  gold  were  printed  the  words:  "The  Holy 
Bible,"  the  book  he  had  ignored  all  his  life, 
and  only  remembered  in  the  act  of  his  death. 
Any  book  for  such  a  purpose  would  have 
made  him  look  ghastly.  Mrs.  B.  sprang 
forward  and  snatched  the  book  away. 
Slowly  his  jaw  fell  open,  as  if  he  were 
about  to  speak.  She  gave  one  piercing 
shriek,  and,  dashing  the  Bible  to  the  floor, 
rushed  from  the  room.  The  doctor's  only 
comment  was:  "  Hell!  these  women,  what 
do  they  expect?  " 

It  was  an  hour  before  she  became  quiet 
enough  for  me  to  send  her  home  in  her 
carriage.  I  stayed  and  made  the  necessary 
arrangements. 


342  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

What  more  is  there  for  me  to  tell  you? 
—  a  big  funeral,  crowded  with  people  suf 
fering  from  curiosity,  not  grief.  He  lies 
in  Greenwood.  I  say  to  myself,  "  Judge  not 
that  ye  be  not  judged,"  but  perhaps  you, 
O  blessed  of  God,  may  dare  to  tell  me 
what  you  think. 

Three  days  after  the  funeral,  I  received 
a  letter  from  Mrs.  B.  This  is  all  she  said: 
"  I  do  not  care  to  see  you  again  in  a  long 
while.  I  am  going  away.  I  leave  you  no 
address.  Should  I  ever  want  you,  I  will 
send.  Please  regard  my  wishes."  I  shall 
do  so.  I  need  time  for  thought,  and  so  does 
she. 

Write  to  me,  Percy,  and  loosen  the  bands 
about  my  head  and  heart.  Yours, 

DOUGLAS. 


TWENTY -FIRST   LETTER 

West  Braintree,  Mass. 

MY  DEAR  DOUGLAS:  — 

We  are  back  again  in  the  country. 
When  the  days  are  warm,  my  window  is 
opened  and  I  am  bundled  up,  and  my  chair 
is  pushed  over  that  I  may  have  a  breath  of 
the  golden  air.  How  little  we  take  account 
of  the  staple  things  of  life  until  they  be 
come  precious  to  us  by  their  rarity  or  their 
unattainableness.  I  never  used  to  think  of 
being  grateful  for  sun-warmed  air.  It 
seemed  to  be  mine  by  right,  as  though  hav 
ing  lungs,  I  had  been  given  a  draft  pay 
able  at  sight  on  the  best  nature  had.  Now 
so  small  a  matter  as  an  open  window  with 
the  sun  pouring  in  gives  me  keen  delight. 

343 


344  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

Bob  parades  his  whole  stable  under  the 
window  where  I  can  see  the  beasts,  and  after 
luncheon  he  sits  here  awhile,  and  we  go 
over  the  points  of  "  Bess  "  and  "  Billy  "  and 
"  Mima  "  and  "  Duchess "  and  all  the  rest 
of  them.  Bob  can  talk  horse  from  Xeno- 
phon  down  to  the  last  distinguished  polo 
player,  and  for  a  lame  parson  I  know  my 
share  about  the  Grand  National,  the  Subur 
ban,  and  the  next  coaching  season.  Bob 
always  thinks  the  best  horse  is  going  to  win, 
that  the  next  season's  coach  is  to  be  better 
horsed  than  ever  before,  that  his  last  lot 
of  horses  —  six  new  ones  this  spring — are 
far  and  away  better  than  any  he  has  ever 
had  before,  and  that  errors,  accidents,  fail 
ures,  and  sins  in  life  are  excrescences  that 
should  be  excused  if  possible,  and  if  not, 
then  left  unnoticed.  He  is  a  sort  of  whole 
some  "  Praise  ye  the  Lord,"  and  I  am  not 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  345 

sure  that  his  unseeing,  uncritical  optimism, 
which  tosses  a  halo  to  every  living  creature 
that  asks  for  one,  is  not  a  fine  thing.  I  get 
cantankerous  at  times,  and  let  go  a  shaft 
here  and  there  at  the  world,  but  Bob  looks 
so  grieved,  and  so  totally  unbelieving  that 
he  turns  my  twisted  spirits  back  and  lulls 
my  temper  to  repose.  He  is  so  confident 
that  what  he  loves  can  do  no  wrong,  that 
Katharine  and  the  children,  and  the  horses, 
and  the  dogs,  and  the  servants,  all  live  in 
his  cheery  hopefulness,  and  things  go  right 
apparently  because  this  happy,  confident, 
undefeated  personality  creates  an  atmos 
phere  in  which  the  germs  of  failure,  and 
insubordination,  and  discontent  cannot  live. 
I  wish  you  would  run  up  here  for  a  fort 
night.  Bob  would  be  glad  to  see  you  again, 
and  I  more  than  glad,  though  I  sometimes 
think  that  my  old  friends  would  be  shocked 


346  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

to  see  me  as  I  am  now,  and  perhaps  be 
made  unhappy.  But  you  must  not  think 
of  that,  and  when  I  have  a  good  book  I 
am  about  as  well  again  as  ever.  Your  let 
ters,  too,  and  the  renewal  of  our  friendship 
has  been  a  great  solace  to  me,  and,  if  I 
have  been  of  any  help  to  you  through  all 
this  unfortunate  business,  I  am  proud,  even 
though  the  parish  is  only  of  one. 

You  give  me  too  much  credit  for  my 
confession.  I  thought  it  might  help  you  to 
know  that  another  man  whom  you  re 
spected  and  liked  had  made  a  grievous  ass 
of  himself,  and  perhaps  been  cruel  through 
pride  and  selfishness.  When  your  chances 
to  retrieve  mistakes  are  gone,  as  are  mine, 
you  regret  them  the  more.  Both  Bob  and 
Katharine  knew  the  girl  of  whom  I  wrote 
you,  but  she  seems  to  have  passed  out  of 
their  life,  at  least  I  have  never  heard  her 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  347 

mentioned,  and  if  they  know  of  her  now  it 
can  only  be  in  a  casual  way.  I  think  you 
are  wrong  in  some  of  your  slaps  at  the 
clergy.  When  I  knew  more  of  them,  I 
used  to  feel  that  the  trouble  lay  not  in  their 
knowing  too  little  of  worldly  things,  but  in 
their  knowing  and  caring  too  little  of  spirit 
ual  things.  In  the  case  of  the  clergy,  my 
experience  has  been  that  innocent  igno 
rance  is  a  better  spiritual  tonic  than  so 
phisticated  intelligence.  The  sensational 
preacher,  discussing  every  newspaper 
head-line;  the  organising  parson,  with 
a  parish  built  up  on  the  lines  of  a  business 
corporation;  the  fashionable  clerical  ath 
lete,  swinging  down  the  street  with  a  cigar 
in  his  mouth;  the  worldly  cleric,  intimate 
with  all  the  fashionable  ladies,  conspicuous 
at  horse-shows  and  the  opera,  or  the  dis 
appointed  and  discouraged  minister,  who 


348  APARISHOF    TWO 

discovers  himself  to  be  unfitted  for  his  task, 
and  yet  lacking  the  courage  to  throw  off  the 
irksome  and  unloved  yoke,  and  who  dares 
not  face  the  world  as  a  man  —  and  there 
are  many  more  of  these  last  than  you  sus 
pect —  none  of  these  is  what  I  want  at  my 
death-bed,  nor  for  my  confessor,  nor  for 
an  example  to  my  boy,  if  I  had  one. 
"  Monsieur  the  Cure,  with  his  kind,  old 
face,"  is  more  to  my  taste.  The  world  is 
looking:  not  for  a  saviour  who  knows  it,  but 

o  / 

for  a  saviour  who  loves  it!  So  I  think,  at 
least,  though  it  does  not  look  that  way  now. 
And  perhaps  I  am  so  far  behind  in  the  race 
these  days,  and  my  views  so  antiquated,  that 
I  am  not  a  fair  judge.  When  I  wrote  you 
of  what  a  fool  I  had  been,  and  perhaps  how 
wicked  I  had  been,  I  wanted  you  to  know 
that  another  could  suffer  with  you  sympa 
thetically,  and  that  whatever  came  of  it  all, 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  349 

I,  at  least,  would  try  to  understand  and  to 
help.  I  know,  too,  that  a  man  may  lose 
control  of  himself,  not  see  straight,  not 
think  clear,  when  his  nerves  have  been  bat 
tered,  and  his  emotions  kept  at  the  boiling 
point  too  long,  and  I  thought  my  slight  tale 
of  the  past  might  help  to  steady  you. 

I  was  pencilling  away  with  a  pad  on  my 
lap,  when  your  last  letter  was  brought  in 
to  me.  I  had  so  hoped  that  the  last  parting 
was  the  end,  that  you  would  recover  in 
time,  that  you  might  perhaps  come  here 
for  a  little  visit,  and  now  what  dreadful 
things  have  happened! 

The  Boston  papers  have  so  little  outside 
news;  then,  too,  I  rarely  read  about  acci 
dents  and  the  gruesome  things  of  life  these 
days.  When  my  eye  catches  such  a  head 
line,  I  turn  away  to  something  else. 


350  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

I  saw  some  notice  of  the  fire  in  Wash 
ington,  but  there  were  no  names  mentioned 
in  our  despatches.  Of  this  last  terrible 
tragedy  I  had  seen  nothing  until  your  let 
ter  came. 

Poor  fellow,  I  cannot  help  feeling  sorry 
for  him.  What  turns  a  man  so  cynical, 
and  yet  lets  live  in  him  a  spark  of  heroism 
and  sacrifice  such  as  flamed  up  in  this  man 
when  he  leaped  into  the  water  for  a  child? 

I  saw  a  man  caught  in  a  paddle-wheel 
once,  years  ago,  and  when  he  was  rescued 
he  was  unrecognisable. 

What  horrible  hours  for  you  those  must 
have  been,  and  the  poor  wife! 

Is  it  possible  that  two  people  live  to 
gether,  a  man  and  a  woman,  getting  harder 
and  harder,  bitter  and  more  bitter  against 
one  another,  like  two  acids  that  mingled 
make  a  poison,  while,  if  they  had  been 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  351 

mated  differently,  both  might  have  devel 
oped  into  something  good?  Did  this  man 
and  this  woman  grow  to  feel  that  each  had 
something  that  neither  God  nor  man  could 
make  sweet  if  they  were  kept  together? 
What  you  write  of  them  reads  to  me  like 
that. 

The  woman  cannot  be  vile  and  hard  and 
selfish,  else  you  could  not  love  her;  the  man 
has  proved,  even  to  you,  that  he  had  a  soft 
heart  on  occasion,  and  that  he  was  no  cow 
ard.  Now  a  man  who  is  not  a  coward,  and 
loves  little  children,  is  not,  cannot  be,  irre 
trievably  damned.  He  will  find  his  heaven 
now,  where  a  subtler  Judge  than  either  you 
or  I  sits  in  judgment.  And  she  has  gone 
away,  too.  Let  her  go  in  peace! 

Those  flippant  and  cynical  remarks  of 
the  man  now  dead  may  have  been  just  the 
expression  of  his  anguish.  He  had  failed 


352  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

to  love,  or  to  win  love  —  why,  you  and  I  do 
not  know  even  now,  and  this  side  of  heaven 
it  is  unlikely  any  one  will  know.  There 
may  have  been  no  grave  fault  on  either 
side,  only  the  lack  of  that  elasticity  of  the 
spiritual  muscles  which  made  all  their  ca 
resses  blows,  and  made  them  hurt  one  an 
other  whenever  they  came  together.  I  do 
not  pretend  to  know  men  very  well,  much 
less  women,  and  yet  I  have  seen  men  and 
women  like  that. 

But  I  do  respect  this  woman  for  bidding 
you  to  leave  her  just  now.  I  see  no  puzzle 
there.  I  can  conceive  it  to  be  true  that  a 
character  with  anything  honourable  left 
would  prefer  rather  to  deceive  the  living 
than  the  dead.  I  believe  if  I  were  under 
ground,  you  would  be  far  more  loath  to  do 
what  you  knew  would  hurt  my  affection  for 
you  than  you  are  now  when  I  am  alive  — 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  353 

though  I  be  only  half  alive.  There  is  a 
defencelessness  about  the  dead  which  ap 
peals  at  once  even  to  the  unchivalrous. 
You  must  be  feeling  that  yourself. 

May  I  not  speak  to  you  now  of  your  own 
wife?  It  is  hard  to  live  in  an  atmosphere 
of  misunderstanding.  This  is  a  common 
phrase,  much  laughed  at  by  the  man  in  the 
street  when  he  reads  it  in  the  newspaper 
reports  of  domestic  scandals.  And  I  sup 
pose  a  really  good  man  would  not  remain 
forever  misunderstood.  Nevertheless,  to 
the  frail  ones  like  you  and  me,  to  live  with 
those  who  have  different  ideals,  different 
aims,  and  who  have  no  appreciation  what 
ever  of  our  strivings  for  better  things,  and 
who  only  see  and  mock  at  our  failures,  is 
no  easy  matter.  I  know  all  that,  my  poor 
boy.  May  I  say  that  I  know  how  you  are 
fretted,  and  how  you  must  fume  and  wear 


354  A    PARISH    OFTWO 

out  heart,  and  nerves,  and  brain,  and  waste 
yourself  in  worry?  Wagner  and  Christian 
Science  must  make  a  bad  pair  of  wheelers 
for  the  domestic  coach,  especially  with  such 
an  one  as  you  as  near  side  leader.  But  there 
are  worse  things  even  than  that.  At  least 
Christian  Science  may  persuade  the  lady 
that  she  is  happy  if  she  thinks  so,  and  cer 
tainly  Wagner  must  persuade  her  that  she 
knows  nothing,  and  thus  make  her  humble. 
Like  poor  Douglas  Jerrold,  who,  after 
reading  a  few  pages  of  Browning,  was  seen 
to  thrust  the  book  away  from  him,  put  his 
hands  to  his  head,  and  exclaim:  "  My  God, 
I'm  mad!  "  When  she  finds  that  she  cannot 
understand  Wagner,  she  may  admit  to  her 
self  that  perhaps  she  has  misunderstood 
you.  If  Wagner  accomplishes  this  for  you, 
I  shall  deny  on  personal  grounds  all  that 
Nietsche  has  written  about  him.  Who  can 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  355 

tell  what  part  this  deifier  of  brass  instru 
ments  may  play  in  your  household? 

"  Who  can  point  as  with  a  wand, 
And  say  this  portion  of  the  river  of  my  mind 
Came  from  that  fountain  ?  " 

It  is  hard  for  a  man  who  has  only  known 
the  poetry  of  love  to  talk  meaningly  to  a 
man  who  is  struggling  with  the  prose  of  his. 
I  would  not  write  of  this  subject  at  all,  did 
I  not  know  how  kindly  you  deal  with  my 
suggestions,  and  how,  in  any  event,  you  ac 
cept  what  I  try  to  give  as  well  and  truly 
meant  for  your  help.  You  are  a  man  with 
the  shadow  of  the  hangman's  noose  not  far 
from  you.  How  often  I  have  thought  of 
that,  dreamed  of  that,  and  awakened  thank 
ful  that  you  did  not  kill  that  man.  You  are 
a  man,  too,  who  only  just  missed  running 
away  with  another  man's  wife,  and  having 
escaped  so  much  ought  you  not  to  be  thank- 


356  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

ful  and  to  beware?  I  am  not  forgetting  how 
a  man  may  persuade  himself  that  not  to 
have  a  certain  bliss  he  longs  for  is  to  have 
nothing.  But,  after  all,  aut  Caesar  aut 
nihilf  is  one  thing,  and  aut  Caesar's  wife 
aut  nihil,  is  quite  another.  This  age  of  dei 
fied  strenuousness  is  confusing  to  weak 
minds  in  that  it  tempts  men  to  believe  that 
all  ambitions  are  on  the  same  level  and  all 
of  the  same  sanctity.  To  do,  to  get,  to  have, 
are  watchwords  in  a  materialistic  time  such 
as  ours,  but  it  does  matter  what  you  do, 
what  you  strive  for,  what  you  get.  The 
mere  making  the  machinery  go  smoothly 
and  efficiently  and  successfully  is  not  all. 

It  seems  to  me  as  I  lie  here  that  there 
never  was  a  time  when  so  many  men  came 
near  gaining  the  whole  world  at  the  risk 
of  losing  their  own  souls.  You  are  too 
much  the  man  of  the  world,  the  man-about- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  357 

town,  not  to  know  that  a  man's  wife  is  his 
own  fault,  after  all,  though  I  am  willing  to 
admit  that  his  mother-in-law  may  be  his 
misfortune!  As  I  have  written  you  in  other 
letters  on  this  same  subject,  the  world  must 
live  and  must  be  governed  by  rule.  "  There 
is  some  one  wiser  than  Voltaire  and  wiser 
than  Napoleon;  c'est  tout  le  monde."  If 
a  man  steal,  to  prison  he  goes.  If  a  man 
kill,  he  is  tried  for  his  life.  If  a  man  breaks 
up  another  man's  home,  the  world  breaks 
him.  Now  we  all  know  there  are  myriads 
of  shades  of  stealing,  of  killing,  of  commit 
ting  adultery,  but  tout  le  monde  cannot 
bother  with  differences  of  shade  and  com 
plexion.  How  are  you  to  explain  to  tout 
le  monde  the  infinite  variety  of  the  dulness 
of  Mrs.  Douglas  Dayton? 

Napoleon  was  a  thief,  and  a  murderer, 
and  an  adulterer,  but  he  did  these  things 


358  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

so  magnificently  that  his  own  brother  Jo 
seph,  when  asked  his  opinion  of  him,  said 
he  thought  him  "  not  exactly  a  great  man, 
but  a  good  man,"  and  tout  le  monde  made 
the  little  Corsican  peasant  an  emperor.  In 
short,  if  you  are  to  break  the  simple  rules 
of  tout  le  monde,  you  must  do  it  magnifi 
cently,  or  not  at  all.  If  you  are  big  enough, 
or  love  heroically  enough,  or  feel  yourself 
to  be  right  enough,  to  bid  tout  le  monde  go 
hang,  then  —  pace  my  prejudices  —  you 
may  upset  the  conventions,  but  otherwise 
not  on  your  life. 

You  have  time  to  think  now,  my  dear 
parish  of  one,  time  to  cool  off,  time  to  get 
the  blood  flowing  regularly  again  between 
your  heart  and  your  finger-tips,  and  me  you 
always  have,  if  I  can  serve  you.  Would 
that  I  might  serve  you  as  well  as  I  love 
you! 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  359 

I  had  been  waiting  to  hear  from  you 
again  before  posting  my  letter  to  you,  for  I 
was  not  quite  sure  of  your  address.  Much 
has  happened  here  in  the  meantime. 

Katharine  came  to  my  room  one  morning 
and  asked  if  I  would  mind  seeing  Mrs. 
Billings. 

"  Is  she  a  friend  of  yours?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  why  should  I  mind  seeing  her?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Katharine,  "  she  thought 
you  might  not  care  to  see  her  after  such  a 
long  interval  in  your  acquaintance;  she 
was  Mary  Sedley." 

I  looked  at  Katharine  closely,  but  it  was 
evident  that  she  knew  nothing  of  what 
Mary  Sedley  had  been  to  me.  You  know, 
because  I  have  written  you  of  her.  It  seems 
that  she  is  a  widow  now,  childless  and  un 
happy,  and  Bob  and  Katharine,  who  ought 


360  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

to  be  endowed,  by  the  way,  as  a  hospital  for 
the  unhappy,  have  her  staying  with  them  for 
a  week  or  two  in  this  quiet  country  town. 

I  think  I  never  felt  my  physical  condi 
tion  so  acutely  as  when  Katharine  told  me 
that  Mary  Sedley  wanted  to  see  me,  was 
near  me.  To  display  my  crunched  and 
crippled  body  to  this  woman  whom  I  had 
loved,  whose  love  I  have  always  loved,  and 
love  now,  was  distressing,  humiliating  to 
me.  I  looked  down  at  my  long,  lean,  white 
hands  with  their  concave  nails  and  their 
dull,  death-blue  colour.  I  saw,  as  in  a 
mirror,  her  face  when  she  should  look  at 
me  lying  here.  From  the  man  who  once 
could  swing  her  on  to  his  shoulder  and 
walk  off  with  her,  to  the  wretched  bag  of 
bones  crumpled  up  here,  with  no  life  left, 
except  in  his  eyes,  and  feeble,  weary  move 
ments  of  the  arms  and  hands.  What  a 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  361 

chasm  for  her  imagination  to  bridge!  It 
seemed  brutal,  horrible  to  have  love  come 
back  and  find  a  hideous  caricature  of  what 
had  been  dear  to  it.  I  am  still  selfish,  I 
fear,  still  hungry  for  the  approbation  that 
all  the  world  longs  for.  It  was  a  terror  to 
me  to  think  that  she  might  come  in  at  the 
door,  look  at  me,  turn  away,  and  then  force 
herself  back  to  take  my  hand  as  she  might 
take  the  hand  of  any  crippled  stranger. 
God,  how  I  wanted  to  be  well  again,  to  be 
strong  again,  to  be  fair  in  her  eyes  again, 
to  be  stronger  than  she!  I  am  past  all  lov 
ing  now,  but  my  whole  body  was  parched 
with  thirst  for  just  a  drop  of  the  old  affec 
tion,  and  I  was  frightened  to  think  that  she 
might  come  in,  see  me,  and  be  indifferent. 
I  have  no  right  to  anything  else.  I  could 
not  take  anything  else  if  it  were  offered  me, 
and  yet  how  for  those  first  few  moments  my 


362  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

hopes  played  music,  my  poor  old  fingers 
tingled,  my  cheeks  grew  warm  again!  and 
then  I  fear  I  cursed  my  fate  and  had  Kath 
arine  not  been  there  I  should  have  sobbed 
in  vexation.  Why  had  she  come  at  all?  It 
could  be  no  comfort  to  me  or  to  her.  It  had 
merely  waked  me  again  from  my  hard-won 
resignation,  started  the  fever  of  life  again, 
tempted  me  again  to  querulousness,  and  all 
for  naught. 

You  and  I  have  seen  the  old  man  Death 
at  close  quarters  once  or  twice,  but  we  were 
young  and  I  can  only  recall  one  occasion 
when  I  was  frightened,  really  frightened, 
and  that  was  when  I  lost  my  \vay  in  a  snow 
storm  out  in  Nebraska  shooting.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  silence,  the  whole  ground 
without  a  track  of  any  kind  visible,  the  soft, 
big  flakes  of  snow  making  a  veil  all  around 
me,  and  the  horror  of  my  own  inaudible- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  363 

ness.  I  could  make  nothing  hear  or  feel  that 
cared  or  that  could  answer.  Intelligence, 
strength,  sight,  hearing,  all  that  a  man 
counts  upon  in  peril  were  nullified  by  the 
soft,  smothering  snow.  I  lost  my  head  that 
time  for  a  few  moments,  and  I  have  never 
forgotten  my  feelings  then. 

Now  on  the  other  side  of  that  door  I  felt 
that  there  was  another  snow-storm,  soft, 
white,  not  understanding  my  plight,  ready 
to  bury  me,  lose  me,  forget  me,  in  awe 
struck  pity.  You  see,  I  have  loved  too! 
You  see  what  a  poor  philosopher  I  am  when 
it  comes  to  the  healing  of  myself.  You  see 
what  a  good  preacher  I  am  to  my  parish 
and  what  a  poor  minister  to  my  own  needs. 
You  see  how  that  I  am  still  vain,  how  I  long 
to  be  looked  up  to  and  loved,  how  I  am  no 
more  resigned  to  my  fate  than  you.  I  could 
have  thrown  those  shrivelled  legs  out  of 


364  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

the  window,  tossed  my  lean  hands  into  the 
fire,  plucked  out  this  straggling  beard  by 
the  roots!  I  only  wanted  to  be  a  pair  of 
eyes  to  see  for  a  moment  and  then  fade  out 
and  be  no  more.  Alas!  I  can  whine  with 
the  best  of  'em,  Douglas,  old  man.  Forgive 
me  for  having  prated  to  you  of  self-control, 
of  taking  your  whippings  like  a  man,  and 
all  the  rest.  I  squirmed  and  protested 
when  the  lash  was  lifted  over  me.  Katha 
rine  saw  that  there  was  something  wrong, 
but  probably  thought  I  was  suffering  more 
than  usual,  for  as  a  rule  I  am  always  glad 
to  see  such  of  their  friends  and  mine  as  care 
to  come.  She  knew  nothing  of  what  it 
meant  to  me  to  see  this  woman  again.  It 
was  like  having  my  old  whole  self  brought 
into  the  room  to  look  upon  my  present  dis 
jointed  hulk,  and  to  feel  as  a  sort  of  third 
person  how  my  past  hopes  and  ambitions 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  365 

pitied  my  present  helplessness.  I  who  had 
taken  the  world  as  though  it  belonged 
to  me,  I  who  had  taken  the  world  for 
granted,  was  to  stand  and  look  at  a  crippled 
captive  whom  the  world  passed  by  un 
noticed.  The  whole  situation  seemed  to  me 
abominably  humiliating,  and  yet  in  spite  of 
it  all  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  forego  the 
sight  of  her  again.  How  true  it  is  that  even 
our  dearest  desires  are  short-sighted  and 
improvident.  What  we  think  must  be  an 
unmixed  blessing  if  it  will  only  come, 
comes,  and  we  find  it  not  altogether  un 
alloyed.  If  I  had  been  told  any  time  during 
this  last  year  that  she  would  some  day  sit 
here  beside  me,  and  let  me  touch  her  hand, 
and  look  into  her  eyes,  and  see  the  ripple 
of  her  hair,  and  have  the  sense  again  of  that 
well-poised  physique,  and  that  nimble  in 
telligence,  I  should  have  counted  it  bliss 


366  APARISHOF    TWO 

indeed,  —  and  now  I  was  simply  afraid  to 
have  her  see  me.  I  dared  not  ask  Katharine 
to  tell  her  that  I  was  shockingly  changed. 
She  had  probably  only  heard  casually  that 
I  had  been  hurt  and  she  must  face  the 
change  unarmed  and  unwarned,  and  that 
made  me  afraid  for  her  too.  But  like  most 
people  who  are  very  confident,  or  who  have 
been  very  confident,  themselves,  I  gave  less 
credit  than  I  should  have  done.  She  came 
into  the  room  with  Katharine,  looking  more 
like  an  empress  among  lilies  than  ever,  in 
her  black  things.  She  took  my  hand,  and 
had  I  been  deaf  and  blind  I  should  have 
known  who  it  was.  It  was  the  same  cool, 
strong,  light  hand  as  of  yore  —  a  hand  made 
for  a  horse's  mouth,  and  to  give  a  man  con 
fidence  when  he  clasps  it.  She  looked  thin, 
and  a  little  worn  and  tired,  I  thought,  but 
her  eyes  had  the  same  half-amused  and  half- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  367 

musing  look  and  met  mine  with  no  more 
embarrassment  or  pity  than  if  we  had  been 
both  on  horseback  and  I  as  well  as  she. 
You  see  how  little  I  gave  her  credit  for  self- 
control. 

"  It  is  a  very  long  time  since  we  met,  Mr. 
Dashiel,  and  so  big  is  the  world  that  I  only 
heard  that  you  had  been  hurt  through  Kath 
arine.  What  a  strange  man  you  are  never 
to  have  told  Katharine  that  you  even  knew 
me!" 

"  Ah,  but  you  know  I  used  to  say  even  to 
you  that  I  was  not  sure  I  knew  you,  and  I 
have  never  felt  quite  sure  enough  about  it 
to  tell  Katharine  that  I  did!" 

She  smiled,  and  Katharine  said: 

"  Oh,  Percy  never  did  talk  much  about 
people,  and  nowadays  he  never  does  unless 
they  are  dead  and  have  had  their  biogra 
phies  published." 


368  APARISHOF    TWO 

"  I  don't  believe  you  have  changed  a 
bit!"  said  Mrs.  Billings.  What  a  delicate 
touch  was  that,  for  how  terribly  changed 
I  must  have  looked  to  her!  Presently 
Katharine  went  out  and  left  us  together. 
We  talked  of  old  times,  of  the  horses  we 
used  to  ride,  of  the  sailing  in  and  out  of 
Newport  harbour,  of  the  day  when  we  at 
tempted  to  board  the  lightship  and  she  fell 
in,  and  the  time  I  had  pulling  her  in  again, 
over  the  stern  of  the  boat,  and  how  I  made 
her  pull  ropes  all  the  way  back,  to  keep  her 
warm.  I  laughed  for  the  first  time  in 
months,  and  she  made  herself  as  gay,  and 
bright,  as  though  \ve  were  really  romping 
together  at  Newport  again.  She  is  to  stay 
ten  days  or  more  here,  and  does  not  wish 
to  see  any  one  or  to  have  it  known  even 
that  she  is  here.  Her  husband  died  very 
suddenly,  Bob  tells  me,  and  even  old  Bob 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  369 

admits  that  he  was  not  a  great  loss.  He 
must  have  been  pretty  bad  if  Bob  thinks 
poorly  of  him. 

I  had  all  my  pains  and  pangs  for  nothing. 
She  came  and  went  that  first  day,  without  so 
much  as  betraying  by  the  flutter  of  her 
voice,  or  a  shadow  in  her  eyes,  that  she 
found  the  situation  unusual.  She  did  not 
so  much  as  mention  the  fact  that  I  was  in 
valided —  she  did  better  —  she  made  me 
forget  it.  I  always  said  that  she  was  a 
clever  woman.  As  was  my  habit  then,  I 
never  told  her  so,  but  I  used  to  congratulate 
myself  upon  knowing  it.  She  has  been  here 
a  week  now  and  I  know  her  better  than  ever 
before.  Her  husband  was,  as  I  had  heard 
before,  a  man  of  considerable  wealth  and 
of  no  mean  attainments,  and  he  loved  her 
in  the  beginning.  She  has  dropped  into  the 
easy  habit  of  talking  to  me  as  do  you,  Doug- 


370  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

las,  as  though  I  were  only  half  alive,  as 
though  I  were  impersonal,  and  so  now  I 
have  a  parish  of  two.  Her  story  is  a  sad 
one  enough,  and  the  misunderstanding  be 
tween  her  and  her  husband  one  that  came 
early  and  lasted  to  the  end.  In  a  burst  of 
affection  and  confidence  he  told  her  of  an 
incident  in  his  past  life  that  she  thought 
shameful.  It  set  her  against  him,  and  this 
reception  of  his  unnecessary  and  intimate 
confession  hardened  and  embittered  him. 
He  was  eager,  as  some  men  are,  to  have 
children,  to  have  a  boy  of  his  own,  but  after 
his  confession  she  had  no  sympathy  with 
this  desire  of  his.  They  grew  farther  and 
farther  apart  and  their  lives  got  sharper 
and  sharper  at  the  edges  until  meeting  be 
came  little  less  than  cutting.  He  had 
ambitions,  and  this  clouding  of  his  life 
spoiled  them  and  soured  him  into  indif- 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  371 

ference,  and  thus  they  were  living  when 
he  was  killed.  She  half  intimated  that  he 
brought  about  the  killing  himself.  Poor 
lady,  poor  life,  poor  world!  There  is  noth 
ing  here  for  a  jury  and  yet  there  is  death 
for  the  one  and  a  clouded  life  for  the  other. 
She  comes  here  to  my  room  every  day  now, 
and  we  are  hours  together.  She  knits  or 
embroiders  or  reads  to  me,  and  I  read  to  her. 
Despite  the  sadness  she  brings  and  the  sad 
ness  she  comes  to  hear,  we  have  some  very 
gay  half-hours.  We  have  been  reading  the 
"  Life  of  Paul  Jones,"  for  example,  and  she 
is  greatly  amused  at  my  admiration  for  this 
Beau  Brocade  of  our  naval  history,  and 
once  she  let  fall  the  remark  that  she  and 
her  sister  had  always  felt  that  I  ought  to 
have  been  a  cavalry  officer,  a  remark  that 
seemed  to  me  to  contain  something  of  the 
secret  that  was  at  the  bottom  of  her  misun- 


372  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

demanding  and  mine  some  years  ago. 
Perhaps  she  was  right  then,  but  who  cares 
now! 

I  begin  to  look  forward  to  the  day  when 
she  will  come  into  the  room  to  say  good 
bye,  with  a  feeling  of  numbness  and  despair. 
She  keeps  me  living.  I  shall  shrivel  up 
when  she  goes,  and  yet  her  charm,  her  tonic 
for  me  is  as  intangible  as  a  wreath  of  white 
smoke.  What  a  miracle  is  health!  The 
dogs  and  children  leap  for  joy  when  she 
comes  among  them,  and  Bob's  "  Jove,  what 
hands!"  after  he  has  ridden  with  her,  are 
his  form  of  a  brass  monument.  This  easy 
poise  of  mind  and  body  which  makes  the 
world  seem  easy  of  mastery,  has  a  psychic 
power  upon  other  living  things  that  we 
cannot  account  for.  Helpless  and  abnor 
mally  impressionable  as  I  am,  I  see  this 
effect  she  has  upon  all  about  her.  What  a 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  373 

prop  to  a  household  she  might  have  been! 
How  she  would  have  soothed  and  smoothed 
domestic  concerns!  I  often  feel,  though, 
that  such  people  have  no  right  to  die  until 
those  they  quicken  have  passed  beyond  need 
of  their  help.  What  an  awful  blow  to  a 
household  to  have  such  a  personality  car 
ried  out  of  it  dead !  That  would  be  tragedy 
indeed.  And  yet  she  is  no  goddess  withal! 
I  have  a  notion  that  she  is  not  altogether 
content  with  her  past.  She  blames  herself 
evidently  for  some  phase  in  her  past  life,  and 
considers  herself  not  a  little  to  blame.  I  am 
too  happy,  and  she  apparently  too  peace 
ful  just  now  to  mention  our  own  rough 
parting.  If  I  was  wrong,  at  least  I  am  for 
given;  and  if  she  was  at  fault,  she  sees  no 
reason  for  an  explanation  now.  It  is  like 
religion:  the  more  one  knows  of  Christian 
evidences  the  less  one  is  likely  to  profit  by 


374  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

his  devotions.  This  materialistically  scien 
tific  age  to  the  contrary,  we  do  not  want  to 
know  about  the  best  things.  Fie  upon  the 
man  who  would  dissect  his  favourite  poem, 
analyse  his  child's  feelings,  inquire  too 
closely  into  the  motives  of  his  lady-love,  or 
employ  a  pair  of  balances  in  his  friend 
ships! 

When  a  man  is  suffocating  he  just  wants 
air,  any  kind  of  air  will  do.  I  have  been 
suffocating  and  I  want  her:  any  phase  of 
her,  any  part  of  her,  any  smile  or  touch 
of  her  will  do.  I  have  no  mind  to  subtle 
examinations  now,  nor  to  left-over  explana 
tions.  I  am  too  near  death  to  be  squeamish 
about  life.  If  it  tastes  good  I  am  no  longer 
to  be  made  nervous  by  talk  about  bacilli. 
I  leave  that  to  youth  and  health  and  all 
their  wastable  opportunities. 

She  has  been  on  the  verge  more  than  once 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  375 

of  telling  me  more  about  herself,  but  I  have 
turned  the  talk  aside  from  such  matters.  I 
live  along  in  the  sun  and  shade;  in  the  sun 
of  her  presence,  in  the  shade  that  she  will  go. 

The  children  with  a  fatal  precision  of 
prophecy  already  call  her  "  Auntie,"  as 
though  they  breathed  in  from  the  air  of  this 
room  what  she  might  have  been  if  this  were 
a  child's  world,  and  not  a  mere  man's 
world  with  all  its  unnecessary  vicissitudes. 
It  is  curious  how  gladly  children  make 
relatives  of  their  friends;  while  we  should 
be  glad  to  make  friends  of  all  our  relatives, 
or  escape  from  some  of  them  altogether. 
I  spoke  to  one  of  the  small  nieces  about  call 
ing  her  "  Auntie,"  and  explained  that  she 
was  not  their  "  Auntie."  "  Well,  I  wished 
she  was!"  replied  the  irrepressible  tot. 

"  But  perhaps  Mrs.  Billings  does  not  feel 
as  you  do,"  said  I. 


376  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  should  love  to  be  your 
auntie,"  said  she;  I  suppose  to  appease  the 
child.  And  then  conscious  of  another 
meaning,  she  steadfastly  did  not  look  at 
me  and  blushed. 

But  what  is  all  this  saccharine  matter 
to  you?  What  are  you  to  Hecuba?  I 
know  well  enough,  however,  that  you  will 
rejoice  even  in  your  sorrow  to  hear  of  my 
happiness,  of  my  new  lease  of  life.  The 
situation  puzzles  me  and  worries  me  not 
a  little.  If  I  were  well  I  should  be  at  this 
woman's  feet  to-morrow.  As  it  is,  I  am  pre 
paring  for  myself  disappointment  and 
loneliness  that  I  have  little  courage  to  bear. 
Suppose  even  the  impossible  should  happen. 
Suppose  —  ah,  how  glorious  are  these  sup 
poses!  Suppose  out  of  pity,  or  repentance, 
or  through  a  passing  notion  that  after  the 
storms  of  her  life  she  would  like  the  peace 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  377 

of  this  dull  world  of  mine,  she  should  con 
sent  to  stay  on  here  with  me!  Even  then 
could  an  honest  man  consent  to  such  a  sacri 
fice?  Have  I  the  right  to  take  her  in  an 
hour  of  weakness,  and  tie  her  to  this  bed 
side?  She  is  young  yet,  full  of  life  yet. 
There  are  worlds  of  love  and  experience 
and  domestic  happiness  open  to  her,  and 
when  one  has  said  the  best  that  can  be  said, 
this  is  an  atrophied  existence,  a  dry  life,  that 
I  live  and  must  live. 

I  know  that  you  would  agree  with  this, 
though  you  will  not  say  it.  I  know,  too, 
that  I  would  censure  such  action  too,  if  I 
were  alive,  and  not  a  mere  mummy,  with 
moving  eyes,  and  scarcely  movable  limbs. 
And  yet  seeing  all  this  and  hating  all  this 
and  seeing  the  temptation  full  panoplied 
before  me,  and  with  no  excuse  of  impulse, 
or  of  being  taken  unawares,  I  feel  that  I  am 


378  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

such  a  coward,  so  weak,  so  cruelly  selfish, 
that  I  might  stumble  and  fall  and  end  this 
poor  rag  of  life  of  mine  with  the  worst  sin 
of  all. 

Who  is  without  temptation?  God  knows 
I  thought  that,  as  compensation,  I  was 
spared  the  trials,  and  the  tortures,  of  your 
life,  and  of  the  lives  of  other  men,  and  I 
perhaps  spoke  lightly  of  them.  I  preached 
courage,  and  bade  you,  a  sufferer,  be  strong, 
little  reckoning  that  I  could  ever  again  be 
called  upon  to  test  my  own  magnanimity, 
under  similar  circumstances.  Forgive  me 
for  all  that,  forgive  me,  and  God  forgive 
me,  if  I  have  maintained  any  pose  of  being 
not  as  other  men  are,  when  all  the  while 
my  opportunity  to  show  myself  a  Pharisee 
was  preparing. 

It  is  midnight,  the  noon  of  thought;  the 
time  when  wisdom  mounts  her  zenith  with 


A    PARI'SH    OF    TWO  379 

the  stars,  and  I  am  so  little  wise!  Indeed 
I  am  so  fond,  and  foolish,  and  weak,  and 
happy!  Perhaps  she  is  praying  for  me, 
praying  for  my  poor  body,  little  guessing 
of  what  I  am  thinking.  Let  me  turn  to,  and 
pray  for  my  poor  soul.  How  poor  is  man's 
spirit  that  even  so  shrivelled  a  body  as  mine 
can  give  it  cause  to  err! 

It  is  morning  again.  This  soft  spring 
weather  is  in  a  conspiracy  against  me.  It 
is  yielding  weather.  The  muscles  of  both 
mind  and  body  are  more  supple  in  this  be 
nignant  warmth.  She  comes  and  goes, 
more  beautiful,  more  kindly,  more  to  my 
taste  each  day.  They  torture  me  by  re 
marking  upon  her  increasing  colour,  her 
freshness,  her  growing  cheerfulness.  Bob, 
in  my  presence,  pressed  her  to  stay  on  an- 


380  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

other   week,    insisting    that    the    air    here 
agrees  with  her. 

Is  she,  then,  happy  here  with  me?  I  ask 
myself.  Would  it  be  so  wrong,  after  all, 
to  beseech  her  to  stay  here  always?  Who 
am  I  that  I  should  decide  for  her,  that  I 
should  decide  against  myself,  that  I  should 
plan  out  what  another's  life  should  be,  and 
leave  her,  and  leave  myself,  no  choice? 
Perhaps  the  peace  and  quiet  here,  the  very 
dulness  of  it  all,  are  the  balm  she  needs. 
Why  should  she  want  more  of  that  life  that 
has  torn  her,  and  misunderstood  her,  and 
mocked  her  with  offerings  of  happiness 
that  were  mere  puff-balls,  turning  to  brown 
dust  when  she  took  them  in  her  hands?  I 
believe  they  would  be  glad  to  have  her 
here,  doubly  glad,  if  they  thought  it  would 
bring  me  happiness.  She  could  still  ride 
and  romp,  and  give  expression  to  her  youth. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  381 

All  these  vagrant  thoughts,  these  evil 
tramps  of  the  mind,  play  hide-and-go-seek 
in  my  imagination. 

It  is  not  far  off,  the  day  when  I  must 
clench  my  teeth,  and  hide  my  trembling 
hands  beneath  the  coverlet,  and  try  to  say 
good-bye  without  wincing.  They  tell  me, 
though  she  has  not  mentioned  it,  that  they 
have  tried  to  persuade  her  to  stay  longer, 
but  that  the  day  after  to-morrow  she  leaves, 
to  go  back  to  New  York.  Where  is  New 
York?  A  million  miles  away,  is  it  not? 
Way  off  among  the  stars  somewhere,  peo 
pled  by  men  and  women  who  will  not 
understand  her,  or  love  her.  How  much 
will  they  see  in  those  clear  eyes?  What 
studies  will  they  make  of  the  sun  in  her 
hair?  What  will  they  care  that  her  hands 
are  smooth  and  strong  and  gentle?  What 
conceivable  right  h?ve  those  careless  ones 


382  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

to  brush  against  her  in  the  street,  or  to  turn 
unheeding  eyes  upon  her  as  she  passes,  as 
though  she  were  one  of  them? 

She  came  in  that  morning  looking  a  little 
solemn,  despite  the  smile  on  her  face.  She 
held  my  hand  in  hers  as  she  said  "  good 
morning,"  and  went  on  from  "  good  morn 
ing,"  to  "  good-bye." 

"And  I  am  so  sorry  to  go!  I  have  not 
spoken  to  you  of  years  ago  when  we  were 
such  good  friends,  but  it  has  all  come  back 
and  made  me  very  happy  here.  And  you 
have  not  changed! " 

"No!"  I  blurted  out,  "I  have  not 
changed  —  except—  '  my  hands  dropped 
down  on  the  rug  across  my  chair. 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  that!  That  is  noth 
ing  to  me!  I  should  be  as  happy  here  in 
this  room  if  you  were  a  thousand  times  as 
ill  as  you  are.  And  you  are  getting  better, 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  383 

you  know.  I  can  see  the  improvement 
every  day!  " 

"  No,  no!  You  cannot  deceive  me;  do 
not  try  to  deceive  yourself!  I  can  never 
be  any  better,  and  I  can  only  be  even  as  I 
am  for  a  little  longer,  perhaps  a  year  or 
more,  and  perhaps  less!  " 

"  I  will  not  believe  it.  I  do  not  believe 
it.  You  are  too  good  to  die.  They  all  love 
you  so  much  here,  and  I  —  I  cannot  have 
you  go  away  from  us  all.  You  have  made 
me  so  much  better  than  I  was.  I  have  im 
proved,  as  they  say,  but  I  have  improved 
in  other  ways,  too,  ways  that  they  do  not 
know,  in  ways  that  even  you  do  not  know, 
and  I  am  so  sorry  to  go,  so  sorry! " 

She  knelt  down  beside  the  chair,  and  put 
her  arms  on  the  arm  of  it,  and  laid  her  head 
upon  them,  and  cried  a  little.  I  put  my 


384  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

poor,  weak  hand  upon  her  head  —  how 
soft  and  smooth  her  hair  is!  —  and  said: 

"  I  do  not  want  to  go  away  from  here. 
I  never  wanted  to  go  less  than  now.  I  do 
not  want  you  to  go,  either,  but  it  were 
wrong,  cruel,  selfish  even,  to  ask  you  to 
stay  here,  even  if  you  would." 

"  Oh,  but  I  would  be  so  glad  to  stay,  so 
glad,  so  glad!  "  she  said.  I  believe  I  nearly 
lifted  myself  in  my  chair,  for  the  first  time 
in  many,  many  months. 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  can  you 
mean?  Would  you  be  willing  to  stay  here 
with  me  —  to  live  here  in  these  rooms,  with 
these  books  and  nothing  but  me?  No,  no, 
it  is  not  possible;  it  is  not  right.  You  are 
young  and  strong,  full  of  life.  You  even 
make  me  stronger,  livelier,  when  you  are 
near.  It  were  waste,  shameful  waste.  You 
are  unhappy  now.  This  place  has  seemed 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  385 

peaceful  to  you.  The  change  has  helped 
you,  but  for  always,  for  every  day,  it  would 
be  different,  very  different.  You  would 
tire  of  it.  You  would  want  other  distrac 
tions,  other  interests,  and  it  is  right  and 
wholesome  that  you  should  want  them." 

"  No,  I  shall  never  want  more  than  this 
again.  I  should  never  tire  of  this  dear 
room  and  you.  I  should  not  only  be  will 
ing  to  stay,  glad  to  stay,  I  should  be  proud 
to  stay.  But  I  cannot.  I  do  not  deserve 
it.  I  am  not  worthy  of  you.  You  believe 
I  am  only  unhappy,  and  that  my  unhappi- 
ness  has  been  the  fault  of  another,  or  the 
result  of  misunderstanding.  But  it  is  not 
so.  I  will  not  have  you,  of  all  people,  be 
lieve  I  am  good  when  I  am  not.  He  had 
a  right  to  despise  me.  I  have  done  wrong. 
I  have  done  what  you  could  not  forgive. 
I  am  a  wicked,  bad  woman!  I  have  no 


386  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

right  to  come  here,"  she  said,  "  and  shelter 
myself  here  in  your  goodness,  in  your  be 
lief  in  me,  and  to  go  on  living  in  this  peace 
ful,  happy  place !  "  And  then  she  sat  on  the 
rug  by  my  chair,  her  head  in, her  hands, 
and  sobbed  as  though  her  heart  would 
break. 

I  could  say  nothing  for  a  long  time.  I 
sat  and  looked  at  that  beautiful  head  buried 
in  her  hands.  Crouching  there  beside  me, 
bowed  down  in  this  new  grief  that  I  did  not 
understand.  I  could  only  think  how  lithe 
she  was  even  then,  how  palpitating  with 
life  even  then. 

It  was  a  long  story  she  told  me  at  last. 
She  and  her  husband  travelled  about  a 
good  deal,  restless  and  unhappy,  striving 
to  change  the  dreary  fact  of  their  discon 
tent  by  giving  it  a  new  setting,  by  placing 
a  new  background  of  scenery  behind  it. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  387 

He  became  more  and  more  dark  and  for 
bidding  toward  her.  He  was  not  a  "  tame 
man,"  as  she  naively  expressed  it,  and  his 
very  abilities  made  it  the  easier  for  him 
to  torture  her  with  his  words,  and  with 
his  carefully  controlled  but  hard  manner 
toward  her.  She  made  no  excuses  for  her 
self.  She  wept  as  she  said  that  she  often 
and  unfairly  contrasted  her  life  with  him 
with  what  she  once  dreamed  it  might  be 
with  me.  This  undertone  of  her  mind  was 
unfaithfulness  in  and  of  itself,  but,  as  time 
went  on,  they  grew  fairly  to  hate  each  other. 
Her  moral  stamina  weakened  under  this 
ceaseless,  remorseless  hatefulness.  She 
grew  not  to  care  either  for  him  or  for  any 
one.  Any  anodyne  wras  a  comfort.  Meet 
ing  other  people,  dancing,  exercise,  playing 
cards,  flirtation,  anything,  to  forget  her  life. 
As  she  expressed  it,  she  ran  about  wildly, 


388  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

just  to  make  herself  think  that  she  was  not 
cooped  up  inside  the  ring-fence  of  this 
man's  tireless  contempt.  She  was  no  better 
than  he  at  last.  She  hated  him,  and  would 
hurt  him  by  her  speech  and  manner,  even 
as  he  hurt  her. 

I  remember  our  college  days  when  we 
spoke  of  a  good  sparring-match,  or  of  a 
boat-race,  as  having  been  a  "  bruising  bat 
tle."  Their  life  together  must  have  been 
a  "  bruising  battle."  I  wonder  how  a 
woman,  or  even  a  man,  can  stand  the  wear 
and  tear  on  the  nerves  of  such  an  existence. 
I  do  not  believe  they  do.  They  become 
something  different  from  what  they  really 
are.  They  grow  to  be  irresponsible,  like 
animals.  I  can  think  of  no  other  explana 
tion  of  what  she  went  on  to  tell  me  next. 
She  herself  offered  no  such  explanation, 
no  explanation  of  any  kind  indeed.  She 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  389 

seemed  overwhelmed  with  her  own  du 
plicity  and  guilt. 

It  seems  that  a  man  whom  she  met,  I 
believe  in  the  South,  attracted  her  husband 
first  and  then  her.  He  was  superior  to  the 
other  men  about  in  wit  and  intelligence,  and 
she  learned  to  look  forward  with  real  pleas 
ure  and  relief  to  his  talk.  He  was  quick 
to  see  the  incompatibility  between  her  hus 
band  and  herself,  and  seemed  at  first  rather 
to  try  to  make  light  of  the  very  evident 
unhappiness  and  discord. 

"  There  was  nothing  bad  or  mean  about 
him,"  she  said,  "  and  I  don't  believe  he  had 
the  smallest  intention  of  either  falling  in 
love  with  me,  or  of  making  me  care  for 
him." 

Apparently  they  began  by  matching  their 
wits  against  one  another  as  a  passing  amuse 
ment,  and  how  readily  I  can  understand 


3QO  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

the  charm  of  that  with  her!  The  husband, 
if  you  please,  in  the  meantime,  seemed  to 
take  as  much  interest  in  the  man  as  did  she, 
and  egged  them  on  in  their  growing  friend 
ship.  Matters  went  on  at  this  pace  until 
one  day,  through  some  brutality  of  her  hus 
band,  she  was  placed  in  a  perilous  position, 
in  which  she  was  only  saved  from  death 
by  the  intervention  of  this  man.  I  suppose 
these  things  come  about  by  some  mysterious 
law  of  amatory  gravitation.  At  any  rate, 
that  night  he  called  upon  her,  condoled 
with  her,  pitied  her,  and  kissed  her! 

"  It  was  my  own  fault,"  she  said.  "  I 
knew  he  would  come.  I  dressed  for  him; 
I  made  myself  as  lovely  as  I  could  for  him; 
I  tempted  him  to  make  love  to  me;  indeed, 
I  am  not  sure  that  after  that  horrible  day 
and  in  that  moonlight  I  did  not  love  him." 
It  is  easy  to  see  how  such  a  bark  as  this 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  391 

drifted  on  out  to  sea.  They  were  more  and 
more  together,  and  he  more  and  more  in 
fatuated,  writing  her  letters,  reading  her 
passages  from  his  favourite  books,  telling 
her  much  of  his  own  life,  and  making  for 
themselves,  she,  I  am  bound  to  say,  as  much 
as  he,  a  life  within  a  life  of  their  own. 

I  am  telling  this  story  in  my  own  words. 
It  came  in  gasps  and  sobs  from  her.  Her 
eyes  seemed  to  grow  larger,  and  her  face 
more  wan,  and  there  came  that  expression  of 
one  needing  pity  and  expecting  punishment, 
which  drowned  my  antipathy,  and  left  me 
only  sorrowful.  My  judgment  was  wholly 
disturbed  and  perverted  by  my  sympathy. 

The  end  of  it  all  was  when  her  husband 
came  upon  them  together,  overheard  what 
was  not  intended  for  his  ears,  and  in  his 
fury  struck  her,  and  with  bitter  words  of 
contempt  for  both  left  them  together.  Af- 


392 

ter  that,  her  life  with  him  —  for  he  re 
fused  to  leave  her,  or  to  let  her  go,  but 
stayed  to  torture  her  —  was  that  of  a  pris 
oner  under  a  bullying  and  cruel  gaoler. 
The  lover,  for  so  I  suppose  he  must  be 
called,  behaved  —  I  am  tempted  to  say  — 
as  a  brave  man  should.  He  wrote,  he 
called,  he  did  what  he  could  to  mitigate 
the  misery  of  the  situation.  He  had  done 
wrong,  of  course;  he  had  no  business  in 
such  an  affair,  but  he  found  himself,  as  you 
know  from  bitter  experience,  in  a  situation, 
the  most  baffling  of  all  situations  to  a  man, 
where  not  to  continue  in  wrong-doing  gets 
to  look  like  cowardice. 

She,  on  her  part,  was  entangled  in  the 
meshes  of  repentance,  of  pity,  of  loneliness. 
She  came  and  went,  wrote  and  refused  to 
write,  saw  him  and  refused  to  see  him,  vacil 
lated  as  one  out  of  her  senses,  and  probably 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  393 

nearly  drove  the  man  mad,  because  she  was 
half  a  mad  woman  herself.  Finally,  as  I 
wrote  you,  the  husband  was  killed,  or  killed 
himself,  and  she,  meeting  Katharine  in 
New  York  by  accident,  was  taken  at  once 
into  her  warm  and  comforting  sympathy, 
and  brought  here  to  rest. 

That  was  a  sad  morning  for  me,  and  bit 
terly  sad  for  her.  She  was  so  exhausted 
that  to  leave  on  the  morrow  was  out  of  the 
question,  and  the  departure  has  been  post 
poned  until  next  week. 

Bob  and  Katharine  are  mystified.  I  can 
not  remember  that  Bob  ever  showed  down 
right  serious  irritation  with  me  before. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  to  that 
woman?"  he  said  to  me.  "What  strait- 
laced  morality  have  you  been  preaching, 
anyway?  Have  you  been  telling  her  some 
tommy-rot  about  renouncing  the  world,  and 


394  APARISHOF    TWO 

that  sort  of  thing?  If  you  have,  you  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  Can't  you  see 
that  that  woman  never  did  any  human  crea 
ture  any  harm,  and  never  could,  and  that 
she  belongs  in  the  world,  and  ought  to  stay 
there  just  as  much  as  Katharine?  You  and 
I  would  be  in  a  pretty  mess  without  Kath 
arine  now,  wouldn't  we?  "  So  he  went  on 
with  a  torrent  of  talk  absolutely  unknown 
to  him  before. 

"  Why,  my  dear  old  Bob,"  I  said,  "  how 
can  you  think  that  I  would  do  anything  to 
hurt  Mrs.  Billings?  I  am  just  as  fond  of 
her  as  you  are.  She  has  been  telling  me 
a  very  sad  story,  that's  all,  and  I  promise 
you  I  have  not  said  a  harsh  word,  or  made 
any  such  inane  suggestion  about  convents 
as  you  accuse  me  of." 

In  spite  of  the  seriousness  of  it  all,  I 
could  not  help  a  little  chuckle  to  myself 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  395 

at  Bob's  expense,  — "  They  don't  know 
everything  down  in  Judee!"  Katharine, 
with  that  superhuman  good  sense  that 
neither  moth  nor  rust  corrupts,  and  that 
some  of  us  might  steal  from  her  to  our  own 
great  profit  and  improvement,  never  said 
a  word.  She  knew  very  well  that,  if  there 
was  anything  to  know,  she  would  know  it, 
and  know  it  before  anybody  else,  too.  And 
I  suppose  she  will.  What  that  woman  can 
accomplish  when  she  takes  down  her  hair, 
puts  on  her  dressing-gown,  and  goes  into 
another  woman's  bedroom,  would  upset  the 
courts  of  Europe,  if  all  their  rulers  and  all 
their  diplomats  were  women. 

As  for  me,  the  whole  position  is  turned 
topsyturvy.  I  have  been  twisted  into  look 
ing  upon  myself  as  not  the  one  to  be  pitied, 
but  the  one  having  pity  to  give ;  as  not  the 
weak  and  helpless  one,  but  as  the  one  who 


396  APARISHOF    TWO 

must  be  strong  and  sane  for  one  weaker 
than  I;  as  not  the  one  seeking  peace  and 
happiness  for  myself,  but  as  the  refuge  for 
one  in  distress. 

What  is  all  this  feverish,  thoughtless 
love-making  to  me !  What  if  there  are  love- 
letters  that  should  not  have  been  written, 
or  tender  passages  that  had  better  have  been 
omitted!  Of  this  other  man,  I  know  noth 
ing,  care  nothing.  I  am  sorry  for  him,  not 
angry  with  him.  He  did  what  he  should 
not  have  done,  but  might  not  I  have  done 
as  much  had  I  been  in  his  place?  In  fact, 
I  say  to  myself  even  now  that  I  may  be 
on  the  brink  of  a  worse  mistake  even  than 
his  in  its  consequences. 

Have  I  not  condoned  in  you,  my  old 
friend,  much  the  same  wrong-doing?  Who 
am  I  that  I  should  weight  the  scales  against 
one  man,  and  then  tip  them  slightly  toward 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  397 

another  man  because  he  is  my  friend,  and 
I  believe  in  him. 

Here  now,  with  my  parish  of  two,  am  I 
to  hurt  her,  and  defend  you?  Come  what 
may,  I  am  not  of  the  iron  mould  that  can 
bid  her  begone,  and  not  try  to  comfort  her. 
I  think  you,  of  all  men,  will  agree  with 
me  in  this,  and  share  my  perplexity  and 
forgive  if  I  make  a  mistake. 

Sunday  morning,  as  the  bells  were  ring 
ing,  she  came  in  for  the  first  time  since  the 
morning  of  her  confession.  The  family 
had  gone  to  church,  and  I  was  reading  over 
your  letters,  as  I  often  do  of  a  Sunday,  and 
preparing  to  write  to  you.  As  she  came  in, 
it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that,  if  my  con 
fession  to  you  of  my  own  troubles  and  folly 
had  helped  you,  why  would  it  not  help  her 
to  forgive  herself,  if  I  told  her  something 
of  you,  something  of  my  other  friend,  of  the 


398  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

other  member  of  my  parish  of  two,  who 
had  suffered  much  as  had  she?  So  after  our 
good  morning,  I  told  her  to  get  her  work, 
for  I  was  about  to  tell  her  a  fable  that 
might  interest  her,  and  perhaps  help  her  to 
understand  herself.  I  told  her  then  about 
you.  How  you  had  made  such  pitiable 
mistakes,  sinned  indeed,  in  my  estimation, 
and  were  even  now  suffering,  discontented 
and  embittered.  "  And  yet,"  I  said,  "  I 
cannot  believe  any  real  wrong  of  that  man. 
I  cannot  cast  him  off,  judge  him  harshly, 
break  away  from  our  long  friendship,  and 
bid  him  good-bye,  as  one  not  worthy  of  my 
regard  or  sympathy.  I  know  him  too  well 
not  to  believe  that  he  will  recover,  that  he 
will  pull  himself  together,  and,  scarred 
and  maimed  in  his  affections,  if  you  will, 
still  live  to  be  the  stronger  for  this  very 
experience."  I  became  so  interested  that 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  399 

I  read  her  passages  of  your  letters  to  me. 
I  tried  to  show  her  how  bewildered  and 
unstrung  you  had  become,  and  how  this  be 
wilderment  had  led  on  and  on,  almost,  to 
desperation.  At  last  I  read  her  one  of  your 
love-letters,  and  pointed  out  to  her  how 
much  worse  was  your  case  than  hers.  In 
the  midst  of  this  reading,  she  got  up  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  and  then 
begged  me  to  stop,  that  she  did  not  wish  to 
hear  more,  that  she  was  satisfied,  that  she 
felt  that  she  had  perhaps  unduly  magnified 
her  fault.  "  I  am  happy  enough  if  you  do 
not  think  contemptuously  of  me,  if  you  are 
willing  that  I  should  stay  here,  if  you  will 
let  my  soiled  love  love  you,  if  you  will  be 
good  to  me,"  she  burst  out,  and  she  knelt 
down,  and  put  her  head  on  my  knees,  and 
held  my  hands  and  murmured  to  herself. 
Let  her  stay,  love  her,  be  good  to  her! 


400  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

Who  would  not?  Certainly  I  would.  I 
thanked  her,  and  blessed  her,  and  clung  to 
her,  and  begged  her  just  to  sit  there,  where 
I  could  touch  her,  and  know  that  I  was  not 
to  awake  and  find  her  not  there,  and  find 
that  she  had  never  been  there,  that  it  was 
all  a  dream. 

They  must  have  had  a  sermon  that  was 
exemplarily  short  that  day,  for  we  were 
still  sitting  there  together  when  there  was 
a  knock,  and  in  came  Bob  and  Katharine. 
Bob  looked  amazed,  but  Katharine  seemed 
to  say:  "Just  what  I  expected."  I  turned 
to  them  and  said: 

"  I  have  persuaded  this  lady  to  stay,  if 
you  will  bid  her  welcome." 

"What!"  shouted  Bob,  "you  aren't  go 
ing  at  all?  you're  going  to  join  the  family? 
Well,  you  are  a  brick!  And  you,  you  beg 
gar,  you  jolly  well  deserve  to  be  thrashed 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  401 

for  deceiving  me.  You  know,"  he  said, 
speaking  to  Mrs.  Billings,  "  that  perfidious 
brute  let  me  make  him  a  long  harangue  the 
other  day  about  treating  you  gently,  and  he 
never  said  boo,  and  then  probably  roared 
with  laughter  when  I  had  left  the  room. 
So  you're  not  going  away;  well,  that  is 
jolly,"  he  continued. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am  going  away,  but,  if  you 
will  all  let  me,  I  am  coming  back." 

"  Yes,  and  coming  back  next  time  not 
to  go  away  again,"  I  said,  and  she  took  my 
hand  and  said,  "  Yes,  not  to  go  away 
again."  There  was  tremendous  rejoicing 
amongst  the  children,  and  after  luncheon 
they  all,  Bob  as  childish  as  the  youngest  of 
them,  went  off  to  the  stables  to  pick  out  a 
horse,  a  horse  that  should  be  her  ownest 
own,  for  the  new  "  auntie." 

So  you  see,  my  dear  old  Douglas,  what 


402  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

a  boon  your  letters  have  been  to  me.  You 
see  how  good  may  come  out  of  evil,  how 
Nazareth  gives  light  and  love  to  the  world. 
Through  these  weary,  weary  months  your 
letters  have  been  my  pleasure  and  my  ex 
citement.  Not  only  was  it  my  friend,  but 
I  was,  through  him,  being  let  into  the 
world,  taking  part  again  in  its  turmoil  and 
strife,  and  now  at  the  last  this  life  of  yours 
has  turned  out  to  be  the  very  key  to  unlock 
a  new  life  for  me.  This  is  a  long,  long 
letter  I  find  on  looking  it  over.  But  it  is 
a  real  page  of  the  life  of  your  poor  friend, 
and  I  knew  how  delighted  you  of  all  men 
would  be  to  hear  of  my  happiness.  And, 
bless  you,  dear  boy,  you  have  done  it.  I 
could  see  how  the  effect  of  your  experience, 
as  I  told  it  to  her,  influenced  her.  I  saw 
the  change  in  her,  as  I  read  her  that  elo 
quent  letter  of  yours.  She  was  moved  by  it 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  403 

just  as  I  was.  If  another  was  strong  enough 
to  feel  that  way,  and  yet  be  good  and  true, 
after  all,  —  as  I  am  sure,  and  as  I  assured 
her,  you  were,  —  then  why  was  it  impossi 
ble  for  her,  why  was  it  not  right  for  her, 
to  forgive  herself  and  begin  anew? 

I  am  so  glad  to  owe  it  all  to  you,  my  dear 
old  fellow!  I  am  so  happy,  so  happy,  and, 
though  I  am  rather  worn  out,  too,  I  could 
not  rest  before  telling  you  of  it  all.  May 
peace  come  to  you  at  last,  as  it  has  come  to 
me,  and  may  I  do  for  you  what  you  have  all 
unconsciously  done  for  me.  Confession, 
the  Fathers  were  wont  to  say,  is  good  for  the 
soul,  but  who  amongst  them  all  has  done 
what  your  confession  has  done  for  me,  — 
led  the  way,  made  the  way  easy  into  new 
light  and  love? 

Always  yours,  my  dear,  dear  Douglas, 

PERCY  DASHIEL. 


TWENTY  -  SECOND    LETTER 
Mrs.  Billings  to  Douglas  Dayton 

West  Braintree,  Sunday   night. 

I  have  been  wondering  if  I  ought  to  write 
to  you  again  ever.  We  did  wrong,  or  I  did 
wrong,  for  the  woman  is  always  to  blame. 
I  wronged  one  man  who  is  dead.  I  thought 
at  one  time  that  I  had  made  you,  too,  un 
happy. 

How  can  I  describe  the  awful  shock  to 
me  of  what  has  just  happened,  and  the  re 
lief  to  me,  for  it  shows  that,  if  I  hurt  you, 
it  was  but  lightly. 

I  have  just  heard  one  of  your  letters  to  me 
read  to  me  by  another  man!  What  can 
have  been  the  seriousness  or  the  loyalty  of 

a  man  who  could  do  that?    Please  do  not 

404 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  405 

answer  this.  I  know  there  is  an  explana 
tion.  Everything  has  an  explanation.  I 
am  happy,  and  at  peace  where  I  am.  I 
have  prepared  another  life  for  myself.  I 
have  found  a  good  man,  a  man  too  good 
for  me  years  ago,  a  man  too  good  for  me 
now.  Let  me  forget  you,  as  you  will  so 
easily  forget  me.  I  would  have  asked  you 
to  forgive  me;  now  it  seems  hardly  neces 
sary. 

MARY  BILLINGS. 


TWENTY -THIRD    LETTER 

Douglas  Dayton  to  Percy  Dashiel 

Of  necessity  I  have  waited  some  time 
before  answering  your  letter,  as  I  was 
obliged  to  realise  that  in  writing  to  you 
now,  for  the  first  time,  I  was  writing  to 
a  stranger,  some  one  I  had  never  known. 
So  your  concave  talons  stretched  out,  strong 
in  death,  and  tore  the  light  of  my  life  away, 
to  be  with  you  and  show  you  the  way  down 
the  few  steps  you  have  yet  to  take  to  the 
tomb  that  awaits  you !  I  hope  the  doors  will 
prove  strong,  for  even  an  insensate  grave 
would  try  to  vomit  forth  such  an  unclean 

thing  as  you. 

4o6 


407 

So  at  last  you  read  aloud  one  of  my  love- 
letters  to  her,  it  never  suggesting  itself  to 
you  that  the  woman  I  loved  and  the  woman 
you  loved  were  one  and  the  same.  It  never 
even  dawned  on  you  when  she  told  you  the 
history  of  our  affair  almost  verbatim,  as 
outlined  in  my  letters  to  you.  Whence  this 
marvellous  accession  of  stupidity?  And 
not  even  now  —  not  until  you  read  this 
letter  will  you  know  that  you  are  God's 
accursed.  What  have  you  seen  in  me  to 
lead  you  to  suppose  I  am  the  king  fool  of 
the  world,  that  you  could  deceive  me  so 
transparently? 

I  have  had  a  note  from  Mrs.  Billings, 
telling  me  of  your  kindness  to  yourself  in 
reading  aloud  one  of  my  letters  to  her. 
Naturally  I  am  dismissed;  I  am  not  to 
remain  in  her  mind  even  as  a  pleasant  mem 
ory.  I  shall  be  to  her  forever  only  as  the 


408  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

thought  of  a  running  sore,  a  something  that 
for  a  time  polluted  her  life.  While  you 
"  are  a  man  too  good  for  her  years  ago, 
and  a  man  too  good  for  her  now  "  —  and 
this  change  has  been  wrought  by  my  friend! 
Verily  must  the  Devil  in  hell  clap  his  palms 
together  at  the  thought  of  you,  O  man  of 
God.  I  sent  you  those  letters  as  to  one 
dead.  I  told  the  tale  as  one  told  in  the 
confessional  to  a  priest,  and  my  priest  used 
them  as  tools  to  turn  the  river  of  a  woman's 
love,  away  from  his  friend  and  confidant, 
to  irrigate  the  arid  plain  of  his  own  life, 
leaving  the  man  who  trusted  him  to  die 
of  thirst. 

For  conspicuous  gallantry,  a  cross  is 
given ;  anything  so  superbly  vicious  as  your 
act  calls  for  decoration.  Why  should  not 
an  evil,  so  beyond  the  capacity  of  the  mind 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  409 

of  man  to  conceive,  be  acknowledged  as 
of  the  great  things  of  this  earth? 

I  am  curious  to  see  you.  Monstrosities 
were  never  in  my  line,  but  I  suppose  it  is 
a  duty  to  one's  intelligence  and  desire  of 
knowledge  to  see  and  contemplate,  if  only 
for  a  moment,  something  that  is  unique  in 
sin.  Your  eyes  must  be  different  from 
other  men's;  the  unholy  light  that  flickers 
in  them  now  has  never  shone  forth  from 
the  eyes  of  the  vilest  thing  yet  created,  you 
Knight  of  the  Black  Heart.  And  to  think 
I  loved  you,  next  to  her  —  in  all  the  world, 
I  loved  you  best,  and  now  "  I  am  shamed 
through  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so 
slight  a  thing." 

You  say  in  your  letter,  "  If  a  man  breaks 
up  another  man's  home,  the  world  breaks 
him."  Now  if  a  man  breaks  another  man's 
trust,  then  I  think  the  punishments  meted 


410  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

out  by  this  earth  are  too  small,  and  it  is 
the  next  world  that  "  breaks  him." 

Picture  yourself  on  the  Judgment  Day, 
waiting  until  the  last,  as  unfit  even  to  join 
the  ranks  of  the  evilest,  for  you  will  be, 
to  the  greatest  sinners,  even  as  a  leper  to  the 
living.  Picture  the  face  of  the  God,  as 
He  looks  down  upon  you,  —  you,  whose 
prayers  all  these  years  have  been  insults. 
Were  I  to  award  your  punishment,  you 
should  look  for  an  eternity  into  my  eyes, 
to  read  what  you  saw  written  there. 

I  have  no  doubt,  in  your  new  happiness, 
you  will  live  long,  for  "  those  whom  the 
gods  love  die  young,"  and  those  whom  they 
despise,  they  let  live  to  chasten  the  rest, 
and  what  greater  punishment  could  she 
have,  poor  woman,  than  to  be  tied  to  you, 
to  have  your  long,  lean,  pulseless  hands 
caress  the  beauties  you  can't  enjoy. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  411 

Have  you  thought  of  her  in  all  this,  and 
how  the  time  will  come  when  she  will  look 
upon  you  as  an  upas-tree,  the  atmosphere 
of  which  destroys?  —  the  time  when  the 
touch  of  your  hand  will  leave  a  red  scar; 
when  the  sight  of  your  useless,  crippled 
body  will  make  her  heart  rise  in  revolt; 
when  the  touch  of  your  lips  will  turn  her 
to  ice?  Of  the  time  when  she  first  realises 
how  you  snared  her,  when  pity  for  her  hus 
band,  pity  for  the  man  she  loved,  merged 
into  pity  for  you?  When  your  very  silence 
and  helplessness  seemed  to  cry  aloud  to  her, 
and  point  the  way  of  duty?  Alas!  a  second 
Machiavelli  has  been  found  in  a  priest  I 
do  not  envy  you,  my  friend  in  hell  —  I  am 
only  sorry  for  her  —  and  myself;  but  why 
heap  up  words  against  you?  "  Your  soul  is 
not  in  my  soul's  stead,"  thank  God.  All 
I  pray  is  that,  when  your  "  heart  panteth 


412  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

and  your  strength  faileth,"  may  God,  in 
His  infinite  justice,  be  deaf  and  blind  to 
your  entreaties  and  your  sufferings. 

DOUGLAS  DAYTON. 

From  Mrs.  Billings  to  Douglas  Dayton 

Percy  is  dying.  He  wishes  to  see  you 
without  delay.  Come  immediately.  Your 
letter  killed  him. 

Editor  s  Note 

Some  years  after  the  events  described 
as  above,  the  body  of  Percy  Dashiel  was 
exhumed  for  family  reasons,  immaterial  to 
the  facts  here  recorded,  and  in  his  hand 
was  found  the  following  letter:  — 

DEAR  PERCY:  — 

As  I  wrote  to  you  in  my  brutal  last,  it 
was  always  to  one  I  thought  practically 
dead  that  I  had  written  my  many  letters. 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  413 

I  now  write  my  crowning  confession  to 
one  I  know  to  be  dead  and  beyond  the  reach 
of  words.  I  obtained  permission  from  Bob 
to  inclose  in  your  hand  a  document  before 
the  lid  of  your  coffin  shut  you  out  of  my 
sight,  but  not  out  of  my  heart,  forever. 
I  told  him  it  was  a  paper  I  wanted  you  to 
hand  to  God  for  me.  He  looked  as  if  he 
feared  for  my  mind.  I  have  feared  for  it 
often  since,  but  he  gave  his  permission  to 
me,  —  to  me,  a  finished  failure. 

There  are  times  when  those  who  have 
been  very  near  and  necessary  to  us  on  earth 
leave  us  without  sufficient  imagination  to 
picture  them  as  disembodied  spirits.  They 
seem  to  us  to  carry  with  them  into  the 
realm  of  the  intangible  all  their  material 
properties.  I  don't  know  how  I  know, 
but  I  am  sure  somehow,  somewhere,  you 
will  read  this  letter  with  enough  knowledge 


414  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

left,  of  all  things  human  and  imperfect, 
to  understand  my  apparently  crazy  wish  to 
communicate  with  God  through  you. 

He  may  be  Love,  He  may  be  Mercy,  but 
He  could  never  listen  to  me.  The  first 
part  of  my  letter  is  for  you  alone,  for  He, 
of  course,  knows.  For  His  ears  is  simply 
a  little  humble  hope  expressed  at  the 
end. 

This  is  what  happened  after  I  wrote  you 
the  letter  that  murdered  you.  The  woman 
we  both  loved  wrote  and  told  me  what  I 
had  done,  and  said  you  wanted  to  see  me. 
I  came  to  you.  She  met  me  at  the  door 
of  your  room,  and  said: 

"  Go  see  your  work  —  the  work  of  God 
cheated  of  its  happiness  by  the  hand  of  a 
man  unworthy." 

You  may  remember  you  asked  me  before 
her,  with  your  last  breath,  to  look  into  your 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  415 

eyes  and  read  what  was  there  written. 
Were  ever  a  man's  words  turned  back  upon 
him  in  such  a  kindly  but  final  way?  For 
there  I  read,  as  if  they  were  letters  dotted 
out  upon  the  sky  with  stars,  the  words, 
"Truth,  innocence,  and  love."  Oh,  God! 
as  this  tidal  wave  of  conviction  swept  over 
and  engulfed  me,  how  I  pitied  myself,  and 
envied  a  few  shattered  bones,  sealed  and 
expressed  to  the  shelter  of  God's  almighty 
wing!  She  tells  me  that  she  handed  my 
letter  to  you  herself,  as  you  sat  bathed  in 
light  by  your  study  window.  That  you 
clutched  it  from  her,  with  the  words: 

"  Don't  be  jealous;  this  is  a  letter  from 
one  I  also  love  well." 

That  as  you  read  you  smiled,  and,  turn 
ing  to  her,  said,  with  a  note  of  command 
in  your  voice: 

"  Burn  this  in  my  presence.     It  is  only 


4i6  A    PARISH    OF    TWO 

a  letter  from  a  friend  that  trie  *  gods  have 
first  made  mad.' ' 

She  did  so.  Then  turning  to  her,  you 
added:  "I  knew  this  cup  of  happiness 
placed  so  close  to  my  lips  was  not  for 
me,  but  it  was  placed  so  close  that  I,  poor 
mortal,  was  deceived.  Still,  I  have  had, 
thanks  to  your  presence,  my  little  vision  of 
happiness  on  earth.  You  have  burned 
something  that,  could  I  live,  would  make 
not  our  union,  but  your  care  of  me,  impos 
sible.  I  might  have  known,  but  I  was  dull 
with  happiness  —  it  had  been  so  long  in 
coming.  Kiss  me  once  before  the  '  touch 
of  my  lips  turns  you  to  ice,'  and  send  for 
the  man  we  both  love,  quick,  for  I  feel 
God's  wings  closing  about  me,"  and  then 
you  slept  and  waited,  and  I  came.  We 
knelt  by  either  side  of  your  chair,  for  you 
would  not  trust  a  bed  until  I  came.  You 


A    PARISH    OF    TWO  417 

told  her  "  dying  was  too  easy  when  the 
comfort  was  so  great;  you  must  die  with 
your  boots  on,  as  befitted  a  soldier  of  the 
Lord,"  and  then  you  smiled,  as  only  the 
"  chosen  ones  "  can  do. 

"Do  you  forgive?"  you  murmured. 

"  Let  my  life  prove  it,"  I  answered. 

Then  turning  to  her,  you  said:  "  Save  me 
a  little  love,  for  even  heaven  would  be  cold 
without  it." 

Then  the  Lord  called  —  and  you  an 
swered  and  were  gone. 

Now  what  I  have  to  tell  you  is  this: 
she  and  I  have  separated  as  completely  as 
you  and  I  have,  for  all  eternity,  unless  — 
unless  you  can  make  my  peace  with  God. 
Please  try  —  please  try  —  this  is  my  prayer. 
Ask  Him  to  forgive  me,  even  as  you  have 
done.  Yours  gratefully, 

DOUGLAS. 


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